Class • 

Book ______ 

Copyright N° 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



"1776-»-WAShWtON ANB HIS MEN.-"l"77 



WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Second Series of LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 



WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 




BEING THE "SECOND SERIES" OF THE "LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION 



BY GEORGE LIPPARD. 

PREACHERrjTIIE^IR^CITY;" 4!,E E^KANCEDr ETC 



T. 3. 



PHILADELPHIA: 
PETERSON & BROTHERS. 

PRICE 75 CENTS. 



George Lippard's works. 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, have just published 
an entire new, complete, and uniform edition of all the celebrated works written by the popular American 
Historian and Novelist, George Lippard. Every Family and every Library in this country, should have 
in it a set of this new edition of the works of George Lippard. The following is a complete 

LIST OF GEORGE LIPPARD'S WORKS. 

THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776; or, 
WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS. By George Lippard. With a steel En- 
graving of the "Battle of German town," at "Chew's House." Complete in one large octavo 
volume. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 

THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OP MONK HALL. A Romance 
of Philadelphia Life, Mystery, and Crime. By George Lippard. With his Portrait 
and Autograph. Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in 
morocco cloth, price $2.00. 

PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OP WISSAHIKON. A Romance of 

the American Revolution, 1776. By George Lippard. Illustrated. Complete in one 
large octavo volume, price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 

BLANCHE OP BRAND YWINE ; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 
1777. By George Lippard. A Komance of the Kevolution, as well as of the Poetry, Legends, 
and History of the Battle of Brandywine. Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in 
paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 

THE MYSTERIES OP FLORENCE; or, THE CRIMES AND MYS- 
TERIES OF THE HOUSE OF ALBARONE. By George Lippard. Complete 
in one large octavo volume, price $1.00 in paper cover, or $2.00 in cloth. 

WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the Second Series of the Legends 
of the American Revolution, 1776. By George Lippard. With Illustrations. Complete 
in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 

THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER; or, THE MYSTERIES OP THE 
PULPIT. By George Lippard. With Illustrations. Complete in one large octavo volume, 
paper cover, price 75 cents. 

THE EMPIRE CITY; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY. Its 

Aristocracy and its Dollars. By George Lippard. Complete in one large octavo volume, 
paper cover, price 75 cents. 

THE NAZARENE; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS. By 

George Lippard. A Revelation of Philadelphia, New York, and Washington. Complete in 
one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 

THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CEN- 
TURIES, containing also, Jesus and the Poor, the Heart Broken, etc. By George Lippard. 
Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 50 cents. 

THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. By George Lippard. Comprising Legends and His- 
torical Pictures of the Camp in the Wilderness; The Sisters of Monterey; The Dead Woman 
of Palo Alto, etc. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 50 cents. 

THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON. A Kevelation of Life in a Great City. By George 
Lippard. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 25 cents. 



Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of either one or more of the above books, 
or a complete set of them, vnll be sent at once, to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, or free of 
freight, on remitting the price of the ones wanted, in a letter to 

T. B. PETERSON & BliOTlIERS, Publishers, 

306 Chestnwt Street, Philadelphia, Pa, 



WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 



BEING THE. 



a 



SECOND SERIES 



OF THE 



LEGENDS OF 



THE AMERICAN 



REVOLUTION, OF "1776." 




AUTHOR OP "THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION," " THE QUAKER CITY; OR, THE MONKS 
OF MONK HALL;" " BLANCHE OF BRANDYYYINE ; " "PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSA- 
HIKON ; " "THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE;" "THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER;" 
" THE EMPIRE CITY ; " " THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON ; " " THE ENTRANCED ; " 
"THE NAZARENE;" "THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO," ETC. 



"Washington and His Men," is the "Second Series" of "The Legends of the American Revolution " and compiHses some of the 
finest writings and pen-pictures that have ever been contributed by any American author to the Literature of our Country. The 
volume contains the following soul-stirring Legends, written in Lippard's most captivating manner, viz: "The Last of the Wash' 
ingtons," "The Mother's Prayer," "The Youth of Washington," "The Boy and the Book," "The Cliallenge," "The Dud; or, 
Courage that is not afraid of the name of 'Corvard,''" "The Hunter of the Alleghenies," "The Battle of Monongahela," "Wasli- 
ington in Love," "The Death of Braddock," "The King and the Planter," "Washington's Christmas, a Legend of Valley 
Forge," "The Fourth of July, 1776, and the Declaration, as well as the Signers of the Declaration of Independence," "Herbert Th-acy ; 
or, The Legend of the Black Rangers, a Romance of the Battle of Germantown," "The Quaker and his Cause," "The Maiden," 
"The Betrothed," "The Bridegroom," "The Valley of the Wissahikon," "The Bridal Party," "The Pursuit," "The Council," "The 
Battle Morn," "The Charge," "The Attack," "The Chase," "The Havoc," "Cliew's House," "Meeting between Father and Son," 
"Sunset upon the Battle Field," "The Ball from the Grave Yard," "The Re-Union," and "The Exile," in fact, all that survives, 
either of fact or legend, of the battles and battle men of the Revolution, are brought to light, and painted before us, so that we can 
look upon every feature of the perilous times of "1776." Painted indeed. Of all the American authors, poets, or novelists, living 
or dead, Lippard comes nearest to the painter, so perfect and powerful are his descriptions. What a magnificent picture might 
be made of his "Sunset upon the Battlefield," contained in this volume. 




PHILADELPHIA: 
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 



306 CHESTNUT STREET. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, by 
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



GEORGE LIPPARD'S COMPLETE WORKS. 

T. B. PETEBSON & BBOTHEBS, Philadelphia, have just published an entire new, 
complete, and uniform edition of all the celebrated works written by the popular American His- 
torian and Novelist, George Lippard. Every Family and every Library in this country, should ' 
have in it a set of this new edition of his works. Tlie following is a complete list of 

GEORGE LIPPARD'S WORKS. 

THE LEGENDS OF THE AMEBIC AN REVOLUTION, 1776 ; or, WASHINGTON 
AND HIS GENERALS. By George Lippard. With a steel Engraving of the " Battle of 
Germantown," at "Chew's House." Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in 
paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 

THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. A Romance of 
Philadelphia Life, Mystery, and Crime. By George Lippard. With Illustrations, 
and the Author's Portrait and Autograph. Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 
in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 

PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. A Romance of the 
American Revolution, 1776. By George Lippard. With a Portrait of " The Monk of 
Wissahikon," and " The Devil's Pool." Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in 
paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 

BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE ; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. By 
■George Lippard. A Romance of the Revolution, as well as of the Poetry, Legends, and 
History of the Battle of Brandywine. Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in 
paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 

THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE ; or, THE CRIMES AND MYSTERIES OF 
THE HOUSE OF ALBARONE. By George Lippard. Complete in one large octavo 
volume, price $1.00 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 

WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the " Second Series " of the "Legends 
of the American Revolution, 1776." By George Lippard. With Illustrations. Com- 
plete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 

THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER ; or, THE MYSTERIES OF THE PULPIT. 
By George Lippard. With Illustrations. One large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 

THE EMPIRE CITY ; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY. Its Aristocracy 
and its Dollars. By George Lippard. One large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 

THE NAZARENE; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS. By George 
Lippard. A Revelation of Philadelphia, New York, and Washington. Complete in one 
large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 

THE ENTRANCED ; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES. Con- 
taining also, Jesus and the Poor, the Heart Broken, etc. By George Lippard. Price 50 cents. 

THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. By George Lippard. Comprising Legends and Histor- 
ical Pictures of the Camp in the Wilderness ; The Sisters of Monterey ; The Dead Woman 
of Palo Alto, etc. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 50 cents. 

THE BxVNK DIRECTOR'S SON. A Revelation of Life in a Great City. By George 
Lippard. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 25 cents. 

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of either one or more of the above 
books, or a complete set of them, will be sent at once, to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, 
or free of f reight, on remitting price of ones wanted, to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 



.1.77* 



LEGEND FIRST. 

THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS. 



"I was bom of a noble ancestry," said a great man 
who bad risen from the kennel where Poverty hides its 
hopeless face — " True, my parents were poor, but 
thr-ee hundred years ago, the blood which flows in my 
veins, coursed in the veins of Lords, Archbishops, 
Counts, Dukes and Kings." 

Then another Great Man, who had listened to this 
glorious boast made reply : 

"I also come of a noble lineage," he said, "My 
parents it is true were rich, but three hundred years 
ago, the blood which flows in my veins, coursed in the 
veins — not of Count, Archbishop and King — but of 
the Hewer and Digger, of the Serf and the Worker, 
whose labors clothed the Lord, and gave bread to the 
King." 

And the first great man laughed at the boast of the 
second. There was great reason for this laughter. 
Who would not sooner be descended from a King 
although a robber and assassin, than from a ragged 
Worker, who can boast no wealth save the heritage of 
want and hunger ? For a King, although his hands are 
red with the blood of the innocent, and his fine apparel 
purchased with the misery of countless hearts, is yet a 
King; the head and fountain of all nobility. And a 
Serf, although his hands are unstained with blood, and 
his hard crust unpolluted by a single victim's tears, is 
still a Serf; the foundation stone of the world, on 
which Society is built; a very useful thing, but hidden 
in the darkness, by the great edifice of Wealth and 
Power. 

Let us illustrate this question by a Legend of a far 
distant age. Let us trace the Ancestry of a single 
Great Man — whom we select from the crowd of 
illustrious names — back to its very fountain, in this 
dim Heraldry of the Past. 

It has often come to me, clothed with strange and 
peculiar details, this Legend of a long past age. 



— The atmosphere of a luxurious chamber was 
burdened with sighs and prayers. 

It was a gorgeous apartment in the castle of a noble 
race; no display of sumptuous grandeur was lacking 
there, the walls were concealed by hangings of purple 
and gold, the dome-like ceiling was supported by 
marble columns. It was full of light and glitter, rich 
with fine linen and gold, and yet Death was there. 

He came not to strike the beautiful and the young; 
no full bosom of a trembling woman was there, to 
grow chill and dead at his kiss. His hand was 
extended to palsy an aged head, whose wrinkled fore- 
head — wet with moisture — displayed the white hairs, 
venerable with the snows of eighty years. 

An old man was dying there. 

Not sinking feebly into the wave of Death, his 
senses wrapped in the fancies of delirium, nor yet with 
his chilled lips moving with one impatient moan. 

But sitting erect on his death-couch, the silken 
coverlet thrown aside from his wasted chest, his hands 
clasped, and his face, with the hair and beard, like 
drifted snow, turned to the light. Beneath his thick 
eyebrows, also snow-white, his grey eyes shone with 
an unfaltering glance. 

His gaze was centred on trie light, and as the death- 
dew began to glisten on his forehead, and the blueish 
tint of the grave began to gather over the nails of his 
long white fingers, the old man, supported by silken 
pillows, never for one moment turned his eyes away. 

At the foot of the couch stood an altar on which the 
waxen candles burned with steady lustre. Their clear 
light shone upon the Image of the Saviour, sculptured 
in ivory, with his limbs nailed to the Cross, and a calm 
Divinity of Despair writhing over his Divine face. 

And at the foot of the bed beside the altar, was the 
armor and sword of the dying man. He was the last 
of his race. The sword was very bright; the armor 
shone like a mirror. He had worn it in the days of 

(3) 



PROLOGUE. 



his young manhood — it had encased many a noble 
form of his race before he was born — that sword had 
flashed in the holy war of the crusade, and covered 
itself with the blood of Civil War. 

In his last moments, the old man, dying without an 
heir, sternly conscious that the fatal hour of his house 
was at hand — that the bright and bloody career of his 
race was about to end forever in his death — this brave 
old man, venerable with the trials of eighty years, gazed 
steadily upon the armor and the sword. Sometimes 
his glance wandered for a moment to the Divine Face, 
but as suddenly returned to the warrior array, which 
was piled up at the foot of the bed. 

The Priest, a hard, stern man with shaven crown 
and sombre apparel, colorless hands folded on his 
breast, and a dead vacant eye, glaring from compressed 
brows, stood near the bed, with the vessels of the Last 
Sacrament, arranged on the table by his side. But the 
old man did not heed him, nor turn his eyes for a 
moment to a pale faced woman who stood near the 
priest, and fixed her eyes upon her father's dying face, 
and wept without ceasing. 

It was his widowed daughter — his only child. Nay, 
there was another child, a younger daughter, but no 
one might speak her name, in this death-room, or the 
old man would couple that name with his dying curse. 

And beyond the altar, stand the servitors of his 
house, watching with dumb agony the last struggle of 
the dying Lord. Here are the soldiers who fought with 
him, in the days of old, and here the retainers who 
dwell on his broad lands, as their fathers have dwelt for 
ages past. 

The old man's lips moved — 

" He prays !" cried the widowed daughter, in an ac- 
cent of joy, as her wasted lace was bathed in tears. 
"He may relent — " 

"Never — " cried the Priest, with a scowl — "The 
old man is conscious that the honour of his house dies 
with him. His son fell in battle — you, Lady, are 
widowed — childless. As for Alice — " 

" My sister — " 

More gloomily scowled the Priest — ■ 

" Do not breathe her name. Let the old man, even 
your father, Lord Ralph of Wyttonhurst, die in peace. 
Or wouldst thou have him go to the presence of his 
God with a curse upon his soul!" 

While the Priest and the woman by his side con- 
versed in whispers, a dead awe had fallen upon all the 
other faces, which were clustered near the light, gazing 



upon the shrunken form and white-bearded face of the 
dying Lord. 

For the first time in an hour he spoke — 

"Sword that my fathers bore to battle, you will rest 
upon my bosom when I am dust. There will be no 
hand to wield you when I am dead. Bury me — " he 
said, without once turning his eyes — "with my ar- 
mour on, and my sword by my side. Let the banner 
of Wyttonhurst be taken from the hall, and wrap it 
about my coffin, so that all the world may know that 
the House of my Fathers is dead." 

"Father — " said a low pleading voice, and the old 
man felt a warm hand upon his chilled fingers. 

" It is Mary — " he muttered, without turning his 
gaze — "A true daughter of our race. She will soon 
follow her father to the charnel. In all the world there 
will not be left a human thing with a drop of our blood 
in their veins." 

And as a single tear rolled down his wasted cheek, 
he surrendered his thin hand — already danp with 
death — to the clasp of his faithful child. Her soft 
golden hair was already touched with grey; her cheeks 
had been robbed of their warm hues by the hard and 
bitter experience of life, and yet as she bent her face 
near to the stern visage of her father, not a heart in the 
dreary chamber but was touched by the sight. 

" Faithful," murmured the old Lord — " True to the 
last." 

Even the leaden visage of the Priest relented, and 
something like humanity lighted his dead eye-balls. 

"But Father — " and shuddering as she spoke, the 
widowed daughter enfolded him in her arms, and pres- 
sed her lips to his clammy face — " By the memory of 
that Saviour who smiles upon you now, I beseech you 
forgive your wandering child — forgive — your lost 
Alice! Do not, O, as the dread Hereafter already 
rushes upon your fading sight, do not curse your own 
flesh and blood." 

Without a word, the old man raised his death- 
stricken arm, and gathering his failing strength for the 
effort, thrust her arms from his neck, her face from his 
cheek. His brow glowed with a stern, unforgiving 
look ; the lines of his face grew suddenly rigid, as with 
the outward indications of an unrelenting Will. 

"Forgive her?" the cold tone of the Priest fell like 
ice upon the daughter's heart — "Did she not, child as 
she was of the old man's heart, betrothed to a Lord of 
noble lineage, forsake her father, her betrothed husband 
— leave these very walls — to share the fate of a 



THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTON'S. 



5 



" Low born peasant knave, who could not call one 
rood of ground his own." 

" I know it — " the daughter exclaimed, as she con- 
fronted the Priest. " Yet still she is of our own blood. 
She is my sister. She is Alice of Wyttonhurst." 

A murmur pervaded the apartment, and the eyes of 
the spectators was fixed upon the brave Woman, who 
true to the holiest instincts of her nature, dared even 
the anger of her dying father, in the attempt to wring 
from his chilled lips only one word of blessing, one 
accent of forgiveness. 

But no accent of forgiveness came — stern, cold and 
unrelenting he gazed upon the armour, the sword and 
the image of the Dying Redeemer, murmuring with his 
husky voice, a curse upon Alice, his Lost Daughter. 

And when the Priest was encircled by white-robed 
children with silver censers swinging in their little 
hands — when the words of the Last Sacrament 
trembled from his lips, rolling in full deep melody 
through the dreary chamber — while the daughter knelt 
by the bed, and the servitors were bowing their heads 
against the floor — still, with a stern resolve upon his 
forehead, the old Lord, sat erect on his couch, coupling 
with a curse the name of the younger daughter, Alice. 

Shall we leave this scene, where Death is clad in 
grandeur and vengeance ! In order to comprehend it 
more fully, shall we behold death, rudely clad in misery 
md chains ] 

In a cell, sunken far below the surface of the earth — 
with a huge mass of walls and chambers between its 
arched ceiling and the light of the stars— an Executioner, 
torch in hand, came to look upon his victim. 

He stood in the centre of the damp cell, his pale face, 
with cold eyeballs and thin severe lips, standing out 
from his black cowl. For the Executioner did not 
appear in the form of a Headsman with a sharp axe in 
his brawny hand, but as a Monk with the cold sneer on 
his withered lips, a calm scorn in his impassible eyes. 

Above him frowned the arch of the cell — around 
him, brooded the shadows, through whose darkness the 
moisture on the thick walls, shone with a pale dreary 
lustre. 

At his feet, crouching on a rude seat — a solid block 
of stone — was his Prisoner or victim, chained by the 
wrists and ancles to the floor. 

The light of the torch disclosed h ; m, as bowing his 
head between his hands — they rested on his knees — 



he seemed to be lost to all consciousness m a miserable 
repose. 

" One year of night and silence, will wither the 
bravest form! A year ago, across the threshold he 
stepped, with a bold and agile stride, and as the door 
grated behind him, a smile flashed over his features. 
Look upon him, now — " 

Nearer to the couching form, the spectator held hi3 
light. But the Prisoner did not move. 

It was pitiable to see him, as he sat upon the hard 
stone, irons upon his wrist, and chains extending from 
his ancles to the massy ring in the centre of the floor. 

It was but the wreck of a man. A muscular form, 
broad in the chest, majestic in the stride, wrecked sud- 
denly into a living skeleton, whose fleshless ai ms and 
gaunt outlines, the rays which fluttered about him could 
not altogether hide. Such was the Prisoner of that cell, 
whose Night was Eternal. 

Once his hands wandered amid tangled masses of dark 
hair, streaked with grey. It was a large head, but the 
pale face could not be seen, for the chained hands 
veiled it from the light. 

" For one year he has not beheld the light of day. A 
morsel of coarse bread, a cup of water, thrust through the 
door of his cell — such has been his food for a year. He 
cannot last much longer — " 

The Prisoner moved ; his chains aroused the echoes 
of the cell. A miserably wasted face, with eyes hollow 
and wild, glowed in the light. There was a broad 
forehead, marked eyebrows, but the eyes were sunken 
in their sockets, the cheeks hollow, the lips — parting in 
an idiotic smile — chill and colorless. 

He turned his face from the light, as though its glare 
smote his eyeballs with deadly anguish — and then 
shading his sight with his chained hands looked vacantly 
into the impassible face of his Gaoler. 

Do you feel that picture, in all its details 1 Far above 
this solitary wretch, arise the walls, the corridors, the 
huge roof and slender spires of this immense edifice ; 
and far above, the light of the midnight stars shines upon 
the Cross, until it glitters like a brighter star above the 
venerable pile. 

Far above, there are free fields, and wide forests, the 
fields white with snow and the forests desolate with 
winter — yet still they are free. 

And here, in the cell, which resembles a coffin, with 
its low ceiling and narrow walls, a living man withers 
inc 1 ; by inch to death and fcols that his voice is drowned 



6 



PROLOGUE. 



by the impenetrable stone that shut him in. Feels tha 
this cell is not merely the Prison of his Body but the 
Coffin of his Soul. He is shut off, forever, from society 
and the sympathies of mankind. "When he dies no 
tear will moisten his cold face. Not one pitying eye 
will look into the recesses of his accursed grave. 

Ah, the reality of death like this, would chill the 
heart of the bravest man that ever dared death on the 
battle-field. 

— The wasted man looked up, and murmured two 
syllables, that may seem to us, but feeble and 
incoherent — 

" Wife — child — " he said, and bowed himself to 
his chains again. 

Then the cold sneer of his Executioner, was length- 
ened out in measured words : 

" A serf — a hewer of wood and drawer of water — 
you dared to love the lady of a noble house. A man of 
no name, born to hew and dig, as your fathers before 
you were born, you dared to open the Book of God, 
and read its pages for yourself. But the strong arm of 
the Church, came suddenly down upon your head. The 
wife whom you had dared to take to yourself was 
doomed to the silence and secrecy of a convent — and 
you — miserable man ! Do you remember your 
sentence — as it fell from the lips of your Judges, only 
a year ago " 

The Prisoner moved not, but a groan was heard. 

" Eternal seclusion from the face of man." This was 
the word pronounced upon your head by the Church 
and the Law. ' Only once a year, you shall be per- 
mitted to see the face of a human being. The hand 
of mercy will be extended to you, in case you renounce 
at once your wife, and the heresy which you have 
wrung from the pages of the Book of God.' I am here 
to offer that mercy — say that the lady Alice is no longer 
wife of yours — say that you believe no longer your 
damnable heresy but in our Church — and you shall 
live!" 

It seemed as if the sneering tone and contemptuously 
offered mercy of the Monk, had roused the wasted man 
into a new life. 

" You come too late," he sadly said, raising his 
hollow eyes — " That which you call my heresy, has 
been my only stay, my unfaltering hope, through the 
.endless Night of this living grave. Shall I renounce it 
now f and lie basely, as I am about to go into the presence 
of my God 1 Alice — renounce her ? Wherefore 1 We 
will soon be joined again, where there are neither locks 



nor bolts ; not much of Church or King ; nothing but 
children whose Father is the living God." 

Not very boldly did he speak these words. Faltering 
in every accent, his eyes vacant and dreary all the while, 
his hands trembling in their chains, he spoke with great 
difficulty, pausing for breath between every word. 

" You come too late," and he bowed his head without 
a groan. 

For a long while he was silent, while the Monk 
holding the torch above his wasted form, looked upon 
him with the same impassible scorn. At last, startled 
by the breathless stillness of his prisoner, he went to 
him, and shook him by the shoulder, but the Prisoner 
moved not, nor uttered one moan. The Monk rudely 
raised his head from his fettered hands, and saw at once 
that he was Dead. 

He too was the last of his race, the last Peasant of 
his name. Or had he yet a child? No wife — no 
child ? 

Yet even as the light flashed vividly upon his wasted 
form, and tinted with a red glare his motionless eye- 
balls, there was something upon his face, which spoke 
of Peace. A smile hung around his chilled lips ; there 
was no sorrow in the solitary tear which bathed his 
cheek. 

The sneer passed from the spectator's face. He could 
not but look with something like pity upon the dead 
man. As he suffered the head to fall once more upon 
the hands, a bright object escaped from the rags which 
bound the shrunken chest, and fluttered to the floor. 

The Monk raising it, beheld a dingy piece of parch- 
ment, on which, in the rude yet nervous old English 
character, certain strange words were written : 

"The spirit of Jehovah is upox me to preach 

GOOD TinilTGS TO THE PoOR." 

These words (whose orthoepy we have modernized) 
were all that the strip of parchment contained, but the 
Monk pondered upon them for a long time, wondering 
from what strange book they could have been taken. 

And ere many hours were passed, a slab was lifted 
from the prison floor, and the unshrouded corse of the 
prisoner, hurled into the cavity which yawned beneath. 

He was forgotten — lost in the great abyss of the past. 
And yet perchance, his blood did not altogether die, his 
spirit altogether fade, as they placed the stone upon hi* 
breast, and left him to his long repose. 

Turn we once more, to the gorgeous chamber of the 
ancient baronial hall The last sacrament has been 



THE LAST OF TH 

said — the breath of incense yet lingers in the air. 
Around the room still gather the servitors of the noble 
nouse; the Priest kneels by the bed; the widowed 
daughter above is absent from the scene. 

The old man in the same position in which we last 
beheld him, crosses his hands upon his breast, and 
gazes upon the woman, the sword, and Holy Image. 
There is a glassier light in his eye, the moisture starts 
more brightly from his forehead ; his hands are blue with 
the death-chill. 

The same ray which warms his face, glistens upon 
the woman, and the rich purple hangings of the death- 
chamber. 

— Gaze upon this scene, compare it with the miser- 
able death, which but a moment since took place, far 
down in the dreary atmosphere of the coffin-like cell. 

It is indeed a widely different scene. Here death is 
invested with the splendors of rank, and grows less 
terriole under the weight of purple and gold — there, a 
ghostly thing of rags and famine appears in lurid torch- 
light; and a face withered, not by age nor disease, but 
by the pang of persecution, rests between hands which 
aie heavy with a felon's chains. 

It was near the daybreak hour, when the dawn began 
to steal through the curtained windows, that a woman's 
form stole through the silent watchers and advanced to 
the bedside. 

"Father," she whispered, and placed his chilled 
fingers upon a little hand — not her own — which did 
not shrink from the old man's dying grasp. 

He turned and gazed upon his widowed daughter. 

"I am dying," he faltered; "Alice — " he mur- 
mured the name of his lost daughter, but seemed to 
hesitate as the curse hung on his lips. 

"She died tonight," said the faithful Daughter — 
"Died in the Convent, amid the Nuns, who could not 
but weep as they saw her glide so pale and broken- 
hearted into the arms of death. She died but — " 

Once more she placed this little hand within his own. 

" Behold her child ! " 

It was a brown-haired boy, not more than four years 
old, who looked with a vague wonderment into the old 
man's face. He was coarsely attired, like the child of 
a peasant, but his eyes were round and bright, his 
warm cheek full of health. 

The stern Baron looked upon that wondering child, 
as though he would have killed him with the last 
glance of his glassy eyes. But the boy clung to his 
withered breast, crept tremblingly up the side of the 



E WASHIXGTOXS. 7 

high couch, and wound his little arms around the 
gaunt limbs of the dying man. 

" Have you a Mother, child — a Father — " gasped 
the Baron, as his senses began to wander in the mists 
of death. 

The Boy looked upon him with a vacant stare. 
" Father" — " Mother" — these words sounded as an un- 
known Ian.ruage in his ears. They had torn hi'" 1 , 
when a babe, from his mother's breast. He had never 
seen his Father's face. Therefore with his large black 
eyes dilating with a stare of child-like wonder, he gazed 
vacantly into the death-stricken face of the great Baron. 

" Had I but a child like thee — " the old man gasped 
— " To wear my sword, and bear my banner forth to 
battle ! Curses; curses upon the child who fled frovn 
my roof with a low-born peasant ! Had she but wedded 
one of her own rank, her child might have taken the 
name of our House. A peasant's wife ! Thy name, 
my pretty one — it is pleasant to feel thy kindly eyes 
upon me — thy name ! " 

The Boy in his clear silvery voice uttered a name — 

" The peasant's child ! " cried the old man with an 
oath that came with his last breath — "The child of 
Alice and her peasant husband ! " with the last impulse 
of his strength — while death came coldly over every 
sense — he dashed the boy aside, and fell back stiff and 
dead. 

A wonderful thing it was to see that little child 
crouching on the silken coverlet, his rosy cheeks and 
great dark eyes, contrasting so strongly with the dead 
eyeballs and fallen jaw of the great Lord. 

A peasant's child, pressing the downy pillow of a 
dead Lord ! Even in death the old man's face seemed 
to sneer at the thought, and the frightened boy crept 
slowly from his side. 

And yet in distant ages — from this drear night of 
the fifteenth century, when we stand beside the death- 
bed of a Lord — the name of that Peasant Boy, may be 
a nobler name, than all theWyttonhursts of the English 
Island. Aye nobler than Lancaster or Plantagenet, 
nobler than all the names inscribed on the blood red 
scroll of British Heraldry — 

For the child, trembling on the death-couch of the 
Baron, the Son of the Peasant, who died alone in his 
dungeon coffin, was named Lawrence Washing- 
ton. 

Could that dying Baron have looked into the futu. e, 
through the mists of three centuries, he might have 
seen a descendant of that peasant child, in the per- 
son of — George Washington 




(9) 



LEGEND SECOND. 



THE MOTHER'S PRAYER. 



A mother on her knees, stretching forth her 
hands over her slumbering child, while through 
the gloom of twilight her soul, shining from her 
uplifted eyes, ascends in voiceless communion 
with God — 

Was it in a Palace, where a Royal Babe, 
wrapped in purple, clutches a sceptre for a 
plaything, and only uncloses its eyes to behold 
scenes of luxury — trains of liveried and titled 
lacquies — magnificent halls, looking out from 
their lofty windows upon gardens peopled with 
armed vassals ? 

Was it a royal mother, like that doll of legiti- 
macy, Maria Louisa, whose veins were stag- 
nant with the royal blood of ten centuries, 
whose silken vestment never once moved to 
one throb of womanly feeling, warm from a 
Mother's heart ? 

Was it an imperial babe that met her gaze ; 
a tiny thing, fated to be King of Rome to-day, 
and to-morrow but the child of an Imperial 
Outcast, chained by British hands to an isola- 
ted rock in the centre of an ocean ? 

No. The Mother was neither Queen nor 
Empress ; she knelt at the evening hour, in a 
chamber of her home, where the last ray of 
sunset, trembling through an opened window, 
bathed with the same flush her face and the 
face of the sleeping babe. 

And the breeze that came over fields, just 
blooming into verdure, was imbued with the 
delicious perfume of early summer. And the 
sun which, setting, flung its beams upon the 
faces of Mother and Child, was sinking in a 
blue vault, undimmed by a single cloud. And 
the Home was a plain wooden building, one 
story in height, standing amid trees and gar- 
dens near the water-side. 

One hundred and sixteen years have passed 
since that hour, and yet the scene is fresh be- 
fore us still. Let us invoke the memory of 



the Past, and paint that scene upon the heart 
of every American Mother. 

In a room, whose old fashioned furniture — 
pictures on the wainscot walls, a couch in one 
corner, floor white as snow, and table on which 
was placed a Bible — was shadowed by the 
gloom of twilight, the Mother knelt, her face 
toward the setting sun. 

Through an open casement — fringed with 
a young vine, amid whose tender leaves, deli- 
cate flowers, white and beautiful as snow-drops 
in the moonlight — came the breeze and sunshine, 
filling the dim room with gleams of light and 
odours of leaves and flowers. 

The Mother was kneeling in the recess of 
that window — a pale woman, whose matronly 
forehead was radiant with the divine tender- 
ness of a Mother's love, whose eyes uplifted 

— shining in their tears — were instinct with 
a Mother's Soul. Her cheeks glowed with a 
flush of crimson, as she stretched her thin 
white hands above the child. 

And the child, resting on a pillow, its tiny 
hands clasped and its eyes sealed in slumber 

— it was altogether a fragile thing, a frail em- 
bodiment of an immortal soul. As the sunshine 
stole in glimpses over its face, and turned the 
marble whiteness of its little hands to coal, a» 
solitary flower fell from the vine above, and 
trembled down upon it, and rested like a Bles- 

ing upon its breast. 

Altogether, this humble apartment, furnished 
in the plain style of the olden time — the open 
casement fringed with vines — the Mother 
kneeling, and the Babe slumbering with the 
white flower on its bosom — presented a scene 
not at all worthy of the sage Historian who 
can only picture intrigue and bloodshed, but 
rather the simple chronicler, whose pencil and 
whose heart lingers ever amid the holy qui- 
etude of — Home. 



12 WASHINGTON 

And as the breeze lifted the brown hair of 
the Mother, she stretched forth her hands, and 
her Soul went up to God in a voiceless Prayer. 

Oh, there was a world of eloquence in that 
pale face, glowing in sunset, and impassioned 
with a Mother's Love! 

Shall we translate that Prayer into the lame 
words of sound ? " Father in Heaven ! Be- 
hold this Babe that slumbers now, with an 
Immortal Soul beating silently in its bosom. 
Shall this child, now dawning into life, ripen 
into virtuous manhood, and sleep after the toil 
of this world in a blessed grave ? Or, shall he 
live to curse his race, and after a life of infamy 
moulder to dust, with no tear to sanctify his 
ashes ?" 

It was this Thought that gave such divine 
eloquence to the Mother's face — The Future 
of her Child. 

A nd as her voiceless prayer went up to God, 
it seemed to her that the sunset sky, and the 
river flowing among fields of corn, passed sud- 
denly away. All became dark night around 
her. And through the dead stillness of night, 
came a voice which spoke not so much to her 
ear as to her soul — "Mother! Behold the 
Future life of this child, which now slumbers 
beneath your gaze." 

! beautiful and wondrous was the Vision, 
or the Dream, or the Reality, which then came 
gliding upon the Mother's eyes. 

It was a prospect of green hills, undulating 
beside tumultuous waters, and centred in the 
bosom of a silent wilderness. And on a rock 
beside the waters, which, plunging over a crag, 
howled in the abyss far beneath, stood a youth 
of eighteen years, clad in back-woodsman's 
garb, staff in hand and pilgrim's wallet on his 
back. His face turned to the setting sun, 
glowed at once with the beauty of youth and 
the silent majesty of precocious Thought. 

The Mother's eyes lingered long upon this 
lonely boy, standing over the abyss, in the 
drear wilderness. 

She clasped her hands — she asked the 
meaning of this scene. " It is in the wilder- 
ness that the heart of the boy will ripen into 
virtuous manhood. For as he walks the wil- 
derness — alone with God and his own Soul 
— God's voice will speak to him, with the 
memory of a Mother'8 Prayers." 

The scene was gone — gone the hills, the 



A \*D HIS MEN. 

abyss, the boy of eighteen, standing on the 
isolated rook. 

The scene which the Mother beheld made 
the blood run cold in her veins. It was a Bat- 
tle among wild hills — clouds of lurid smoke, 
rolling over heaps of dead, whose glassy eyes 
shone mockingly in the red light. Red men 
were there, murdering in stealth, from the 
shelter of a log or tree — and there legions of 
armed men, in scarlet array, marched in exact 
order to their certain Death. 

But. there was one form, a youth of twenty- 
three, mounted on a dark bay horse, who won 
at once the Mother's eye. 

Where the fight was most terrible, where 
the yell of dying men mingled most fiercely 
with the red man's war-whoop — he was there. 
Ever the same, a gallant youth of magnificent 
form, and grey eyes, dilating with a hero's soul. 

And the dying raised their pale faces to be- 
hold him as he went by, and their lips grew 
cold forever in the act of blessing his name. 

How the Mother's heart expanded in her 
bosom, as she beheld this scene ! 

But ah, sad and fearful change ! His horse 
is wounded — he totters, he reels, and buries 
his rider under his writhing body. There is a 
terrible pause. At last, covered with blood, 
the fallen Rider springs to his feet and behol ds 
the foe who w r ounded his horse, and aimed the 
bullet at his own heart — he beholds the foe 
on his knees, beaten down by a friendly sw r ord. 

Does he slay the fallen foe? The Mother 
holds her breath as she watches the issue of 
the scene. Ah, he raises his hand, the youth 
of twenty-three, but it is to bear his enemy 
aside from the roar of the conflict, and rest his 
shattered limbs by the river side, under the 
shade of a great oak tree. 

And then, once more through the silence 
comes a voice — " Behold your son in Battle ! 
Strong in the Right, he prepares himself on 
the dreary hill-side for a wider field, a nobler 
cause. He cannot strike the fallen, nor pursue 
the suppliant foe, for the Memory of his Mo- 
ther's Prayer is with him now." 

And thus, from scene to scene, the Mother 
beheld spreading before her, the great drama of 
her Child's Future. The scenes that she saw, 
the battles she beheld, would crowd a volume. 

There was a dark river, burdened with ice, 
and heaving sullenly in the grey winter's dawn. 



THE MOTHER^ PRAYER. 



13 



Her Son, the Babe which sleeps before her, 
grown to mature manhood, was upon that river, 
guiding the wreck of an army to the opposite 
shore, and speaking to half-naked and starving 
men the bold thoughts of Freedom. 

There was a scene of cheerless hills, crowded 
by miserable huts, whose rugged timbers rose 
gloomily from amid a wide waste of snow. 
Starvation was there, and Plague and Cold, 
doing their three-fold work upon a band of 
heroes. But there, upon his knees, in his 
warrior uniform, praying to God for his men — 
offering up his life as a sacrifice for his country 
— there was the lender of this band, whose 
great soul shone in his form and features, and 
in his more than kingly presence. 

The Mother knew that Face ! It was her 
son ; and the voice which she had heard before 
she heard again — " Your son, become the 
Leader of a People, defies Hunger, Plague, 
and Cold, and holds the serenity of his- soul 
against foes abroad and traitors at home, for 
God's voice speaks to him again in the Memory 
of his Mother's Prayer.'' 1 

At last there came a scene which filled every 
avenue of her heart with joy — joy too deep 
for words or tears. 

A man of more than regal presence stood 
among a countless multitude of freemen, and 
while their shouts went up to Heaven, he gave 
back into their hands the sword which had 
achieved their Freedom. 

And in that moment, his large grey eyes 
flashing as they gazed upon the countless mul- 
titude, brightened with a kindlier, holier lustre, 
as the heart of the Great Man was filled with 
the Memory of his Mother's Face — of that 
gentle voice which had whispered Religion in 
his ear — of that Soul which had infused its 
holy nature into his own breast 

These scenes the Mother beheld with every 
varied emotion. But the last scene fired every 
pulse with a calm rapture, and shed the baptism 
of unutterable peace upon her soul. 

But once more that voice, which came 
through darkness and silence, spoke to her — 

" Mother ! 77ms will be the life of your 
babe, in case you are true to your trust. 
For God gives into every Mother's hands the 
life, the Destiny of her child." 

Then, after the voice was still, came a scene 
at once dark and crushing. With chilled blood 



and a heart slowly struggling under an over- 
whelming Terror, the Mother beheld it — a 
Dream composed of a succession of vivid pic- 
tures. 

First, a wild boy standing upon a vessel's 
deck, amid the darkness of an ocean storm. 
His defiant lip and blasphemous eye, h>s hand 
uplifted in scorn at the lightning which circled 
over him — twining among the clouds like a 
fiery serpent over a pall — all attested a reck- 
less and outcast soul. 

No Mother's Prayer shed its blessing on his 
corrugated brow — no memory of a Mother's 
teachings came to bless the heart of the Out- 
cast Boy. 

And the Outcast Boy ripened into a Murderer 
before the Mother's eyes — and the Murderer 
became a Pirate — and at last the dread drama 
terminated on a desert island, on whose bleak 
shore a skeleton, washed by the waves from 
its rude grave, glared whitely in the tropic sun. 

And the skeleton — all that remained of the 
Murderer and the Pirate — was her son, the 
Babe which now slumbered beneath her out- 
spread hands ! 

" There is no blessing upon the Skeleton, 
for no Mother's Memory comes to blossom 
in good deeds over the dead " 

She heard the voice once more — 
" And this, O Mother, will be the Future of 
your child, deprived of a Mother's teachings 
and a Mother's prayer." 

With the last accent of that voice her vision 
passed away. 

The Babe was still there — slumbering in 
the twilight hour — with its hands clasped and 
the white flower upon its heart. 

An image of Peace — a glimpse of Eden — 
centred in the serenity of the summer twilight, 
seemed that Child slumbering beneath its Mo- 
ther's gaze. 

Her mind s ill agitated by her Dream — 
with its terrible picture of a child unblest by a 
Mother's Prayer; and its divine picture of a 
child hallowed by that Prayer — she turned 
from the window, leaving the Babe in the 
shadowy recess. 

The ray of a candle trembled through the 
gloom. 

The candle stood upon a table, which, cov- 
ered with a white cloth, resembled an altar. 
Upon the cloth, beside the candle, appeared 



14 WASHINGTON 

a white urn, or vase, filled with clear cold 
water. 

And there stood a man of venerable presence, 
a Minister of God, with the father of the babe 
at his side. The wrinkled face, the white hair 
of the Preacher, were in strong but not un- 
pleasing contrast with the young manhood of 
the Father. 

Around were grouped a few friends — men 
and women, whose faces appeared in the dim 
light, and who had come to witness the Bap- 
tism of the Child. 

And the Mother bore the Babe from its rest- 
ing place — it opened its eyes as she raised it, 
and clutched the stray flower with its tiny hand. 

And she stood by the baptismal vase, while 
the holy words were said, while the withered 



AND HIS MEN. 

hand of the Priest sprinkled the blessed drops 
upon the white brow of that sinless babe, and 
all the while it gazed wonderingly around, 
clutching the stray flower in its little hand. 

And that tiny hand should one day clutch a 
Battle Blade, and carve a Nation's Freedom 
with a Hero's Sword. 

Holy were the words which fell from the 
lips of the Preacher — holy the baptism which 
he sprinkled upon the brow of unconscious 
innocence — but the Mother, as she girdled the 
Babe to her bosom and remembered her dream, 
could not banish the thought — that the holiest 
baptism which Earth could* offer up to the eye 
of God — holier than words, or forms, or 
sprinkled water — was the Baptism of a 
Mother's Prayer. 



THE 



LEGEND THIRD. 

YOUTH OF WASHINGTON. 



4 



It is not the most difficult thing in the world 
to write the history of a battle. The tramp of 
legions, the crash of contending foemen, the 
waving of banners — arms glittering here, and 
the cold faces of the dead glowing yonder, in 
the battle flash — these form a picture that 
strikes the heart at once, and makes its mark 
forever. 

But who can write the history of a Soul ? 

Who can tell how the germ of heroism, the 
idea of greatness first swells in the mind of the 
Boy, and slowly ripens into full life ? 

We have seen Washington the President. 
We have known Washington the General. 
Shall we look into the soul of Washington the 
Boy ? Shall we behold the almost impercep- 
tible gradations which marked the progress of 
that soul into manhood ? Shall we witness 
the silent, gradual, ceaseless education of that 
soul ? 

How was Washington educated? Did he 
lounge away five years of his life within the 
walls of a college, occupied in removing the 
shrouds from the mummies of Classic Litera- 
ture, busy in familiarizing his mind with the 
elaborate pollutions of Grecian mythology, or 
in analyzing the hollow philosophies of the 
academy and portico ? 

No. His education was on a broader, vaster 
scale. 

At seventeen he leaves the common school, 
where he had received the plain rudiments of 
an English education, and with knapsack 
strapped to his shoulders, surveyor's instru- 
ments in his hand, he goes forth, a pilgrim 
among the mountains. Where there is blue 
sky, where the tumultuous river hews its way 
through colossal cliffs, where the great peaks 
of the Alleghanies rise like immense altars into 



the heavens — such were the scenes in which 
the soul of Washington was educated. 

He went forth a wanderer into the wilder- 
ness. At night he stretched his limbs in tho 
depths of the forest, or rose to Iook upon the 
stars, as they shone in upon the awful night 
of the wilderness, or sat down with the red 
men by their council fire, and learned from 
this strange race the traditions of the lost 
nations of America. 

Three years of his life glide away while he 
sojourns among the scenes of nature's grandeur. 
Those three years form his character, and 
shape his soul. Glimpses of the future come 
upon him like those blushes of radiance in the 
day-break sky, which announce the rising of 
the sun. 

Shall we learn the manner of his communion 
with nature and with God ? 

We know it is beneath the dignity of history 
to look even for an instant into the heart. We 
know that vague generalities, misty outlines, 
compact and well-proportioned falsehoods, 
sprinkled with a dash of what is called philo- 
sophy — too often constitute the object and the 
manner of history. 

Shall we depart a little while from the re- 
spectable regularities of history, which too 
often resemble the regular tactics of Brnddock 
on his fatal field, and call tradition and legend 
to our aid? Tradition and legend, which, in 
their vivid but irregular details, remind us 
forcibly of the crude style of battle which 
young Washington so fruitlessly commended to 
the notice of the regular general, on the battle 
day of Monongahela. 

Learn, then, the manner of young Wash- 
ington's communion with nature and with 



16 WASHINGTON 

But first learn and know by heart the scenes 
in which his boyhood passed away. 

Over a tumultuous torrent, high in the upper 
air, there hangs a bridge of rock, fashioned by 
the hand of Nature, with the peaks of granite 
mountains for its horizon. Two hundred feet 
above the foaming waves you behold this arch, 
which in its very ruggedness, looks graceful 
as a floating scarf. Over the waves, looking 
through the arch, you catch a vision of colos- 
sal cliffs, with a glimpse of smiling sky. Ad- 
vance to the parapet of this bridge — cling to 
the shrubs that grow there — look below! 
Your heart grows sick — your brain reels. 

Stand in the shadow of the arch, and look 
above. How beautiful ! While the torrent 
sparkles at your feet, yonder, in the very 
Heaven, the Arch of Rock fills your eye, and 
spans the abyss, with giant trees upon its 
brow. 

To the Natural Bridge, Washington, the 
young pilgrim came. He stood by the waves 
at sunset — he drank in the rugged sublimity 
of the scene. And when the morning came, 
with an unfaltering step, and hand that never 
shook, not for an instant, with one pulse of 
fear, he climbed the awful height — he wrote 
his name upon the rock — he stood upon the 
summit, beneath the tall pine, and saw the 
march of day among the mountains. 

Who shall picture his emotions in that 
hour ? 

As his unfaltering hand traced the name 
upon the rock, did he dream of the day when 
that name should be stamped upon the history 
of his country, and written not in stone, but in 
the throbs of living hearts? 

As he stood upon the arch, and saw the tor- 
rent sparkle dimly far below, while the kiss 
of light was glittering on the mountain tops, 
did no vision of the battle field, no shadowy 
presentiment of glory, gleam awfully before 
his flashing eyes ? 

Again ; another scene of Washington's 
education. 

There is a river which sparkles beautifully 
among its leafy banks — glides on as smoothly 
as the dream of sinless slumber ; but even as 
you gaze upon its glassy waves, it rushes from 
your sight. It glides over a bed of rocks, and 
then through a yawning abyss sinks with one 



AND HIS MEN. 

sullen plunge into the bosom of the earth- Oi 
one side you behold its smooth waters — at 
your feet the abyss — and yonder, an undu- 
lating meadow. Yes, where should be the 
course of the river, you behold slopes of grass 
and flowers. 

It is simply called the Lost River. 

It fills you with inexplicable emotions to see 
this beautiful stream, now flashing in the sun- 
light, now — ere you can count one — lost in 
a dismal cavern, with flowers growing upon its 
grave. 

Here Washington, the young pilgrim, wan- 
dered oftentime, and gazed with a full heart 
upon the mysterious river. 

" Shall my life be like that river? Gliding 
smoothly on — shining in sunlight, only to 
plunge, without a moment's warning, into 
night and eternity." 

Did no thought like this cross the young 
pilgrim's soul ? In that wondrous river he be- 
held a symbol of a brave life, suddenly plunged 
in darkness. Or, it may be, of a great heart, 
hurled into obscurity, only to rise more beauti- 
ful and strong, after the night was over and 
the darkness gone. For after three miles of 
darkness, the lost river comes sparkling into 
light again, singing for very gladness, as it 
rushes from the cavern into open air. 

Amid scenes like these the youth of Wash- 
ington was passed. He grew to manhood 
amid the glorious images of unpolluted nature. 
Now, pausing near the mountain top, he saw 
the valleys of Virginia fade far away, in one 
long smile of verdure and sunshine, with the 
Potomac, like a silver thread, in the distance. 

Now battling for life, amid hunger, snow, 
and savage foes, he makes his bed in the hol- 
low of the rock, or sets his destiny afloat amid 
the waves and ice of a wintry river 

There is one picture in the life of Washing- 
ton, the Boy, which has ever impressed my 
soul. 

It is not so much that picture of young 
Washington, seated at the feet of his widowed 
mother, gazing into her pale face, drinking the 
fathomless affection of her mild eyes, and for 
her sake renouncing the glittering prospect of 
an ocean life, and laurels gathered from its 
gory waves. 

This picture, in its simplicity, is very beau- 




2 



(17) 



THE YOUTH OF 

tiful. But it is another picture which enchains 
me. Behold it. 

By the side of a lonely stream, in the depth 
of a green woodland, sits a boy of fourteen — 
shut out from all the world, alone with his 
heart — his finger laid upon an opened volume, 
while his large grey eye gazes vacantly into 
the deep waters. 

And tha>t volume is the old Family Bible, 
marked with the name of his ancestor, John 
Washington; and from its large letters look 
forth the Prophets of Israel, and from its pages, 
printed in antique style, the face of Jesus 
smiles in upon the soul of the dreaming boy. 

Washington the boy, alone with the old Bi- 
ble which his ancestor, a wanderer and an ex- 
ile, brought from the English shore — alone 
with the prophets and the warriors of long dis- 
tant ages — shut in from the world by the aw- 
ful forms of revelation — now wandering with 
the Patriarchs under the shade of palms, 
among the white flocks — now lingering by Sa- 
maria's well, while the Divine voice melts in • 
accents of unutterable music upon the stillness 
of noonday. 

Let us for a few moments survey the various 
epocha of the youth of Washington. 

At the age of ten years he is left an orphan ; 
from the hour of his father's death he is edu- 
cated by his widowed mother. 

At the age of fourteen a midshipman's war- 
rant is offered to him — with a brilliant pros- 
pect of naval glory in the distance. He ac- 
cepts the warrant — his destiny seems trem- 
bling in the balance — when his mother, who 
already saw a nobler theatre open before her 
boy, induces him to surrender the idea of an 
ocean life. 

He is seventeen when he takes up the in- 
struments of the surveyor's craft, and crossing 
the Alleghanies, beholds, for the first time, the 
customs of the Indian people. 

Three years pass, and he is a pilgrim amid 
the forms of external nature. 

We behold him on the ocean, amid the ter- 
ror of its storms, and very near the doom of 
its shipwrecks. His heart pillows the head of 
a dying brother ; he accompanies Laurence 
Washington on a voyage to Barbadoes, and is 
absent on the ocean, and on the shores of a 



WASHINGTON. 19 

strange land, from the fad of i751 until the 
spring of 1752. 

When Laurence dies, his young brother, 
George Washington, a youth of twenty years, 
is appointed executor of his immense estates. 

At the age of twenty-one, he is designated by 
the Governor of Virginia as a Commissioner 
to treat with the hostile French and their In- 
dian allies, who threaten our western borders. 
In the pursuit of the object of this mission, he 
journeys 560 miles into the trackless wilder- 
ness. 

He is twenty-two when he first mingles in 
battle : his sword is unsheathed July 3, 1754, 
at the fight of the Great Meadows. 

And at the age of twenty-three, July 9th, 
1775, he shares in the dangers of Braddock's 
field, and saves the wreck of the defeated 
army. 

The great epochs of the Youth of Wash- 
ington are written in the preceding paragraphs. 
A wonderful youth indeed ! From the com- 
mon school-house into the untrodden wilder- 
ness ; from the couch of a dying brother into 
the terror of battle, Washington had already 
lived a life, before he was twenty-three years 
old. 

Let us, my friends, write the unwritten his- 
tory of Washington, Not the dim outline 
which History sketches, but a picture of the 
Man — with color, shape, life and voice. Yes, 
life ; for as we go on, among the shrines of the 
Past, the dead will live with us ; and voice, 
too ; for as we question the ghosts of other 
days, they will answer us, although the 
shadows of a hundred years brood over their 
graves. 

And ere we hasten forth upon our journey, 
let us for a moment compare the youth ol 
Washington with the boyhood of Arnold. 

Washington, nourished by the counsels of a 
mother, surrounded by powerful friends, and 
with many a kind hand for his brow when it 
was stricken with fever, many a kind voice for 
his heart when it was heavy with sorrow. 

Arnold, a friendless boy, left by an intem- 
perate father to the — world ; guided, it is true, 
by a kind mother, but a mother who saw all 
the clouds of misfortune lowering upon her 
path, and felt the heaviest blows of misery upon 
her breast. 



20 WASHINGTON 

A contrast of terrible meaning. 

Washington learns from his mother to bear 
ill, to suffer all, and to hold on, through calm 
and storm to the right. 

Washington becomes the Man of a World. 

Arnold, though swayed for a while by the 
•essons of his mother, learns the bitter lesson 
which the world teaches to him — learn by 
heart to return hate with hate, and to fling 
wrong into the face of wrong. 

Arnold becomes the Omen of a world. 

Learn from this the awful importance of 
those early influences which shape the mind 



AND HIS MEN, 

and mould the heart. Youth is a tender plant 
— beware how you tread upon it! Nurse it 
generously, and one day it will bloom before 
you in the manhood of a Washington. Crush 
it, and it will one day wound your heel with 
the serpent sting of Arnold. 

And while we read together the great lesson 
of Washington s youth, and trace, side by side, 
the gradual steps by which he rose to great- 
ness, let us never forget that there was one 
blessing which followed him like a good angel, 
ani breathed upon his soul the very atmos- 
phere of Heaven — "The Memory of Mary 
his Mother I" 



/ 



LEGEND FOURTH. 



THE BOY AND THE BOOK. 



One hour of silence and of thought. 

Who shall paint its history ? What power 
of language, what eloquence of speech, can 
paint the day-dreams that come like ghosts over 
the mind of boyhood, and fling their shadowy 
hands toward a distant but a gorgeous future ? 

One summer day r upon a rock which over- 
hung a wood-embosomed brook, there sat a 
boy of fourteen years, clasping his hand over 
a book which rested on his knee, while his ab- 
sent gaze was fixed upon the wave below. 

That wave, framed in foliage, mirrored in a 
cloudless sky, warmed by the rays of a de- 
clining sun. 

The slender form of the boy was clad in a 
dress of coarse grey; his falling collar disclosed 
his white throat ; his brown hair, shadowed 
features remarkable at once for their firmly 
chisseled outlines, and their expression of pre- 
cocious thought. Those grey eyes, warming 
and dilating under the boldly defined brows, 
shone with the rapture of some absorbing day- 
dream. 

Near the boy, reclining on the rock which 
overhung the stream, arose an aged oak, whose 
massive trunk was garlanded with vines, while 
it extended one rugged and gnarled limb, thick 
with leaves, over the bosom of the waters. 

And the boy reclining on the rock, and the 
old tree clad in vines, looked, together, like an 
image of Youth stretched at the feet of the 
venerable Past. 

On the rock, beside the boy, were scattered 
various things which seem to indicate the sports 
of youth, mingled with the grave thought of 
manhood. A bow and three arrows — a com- 
pass — a fishing rod, and a rusted sword, bat- 
tered in the handle and dented in the blade. 

But the eye of the boy was fixed upon the 



waters with a dreamy, absent glance. He sat 
for a long time like a statue — a dumb thing, 
without power of speech or motion — his 
clasped hands lay upon the old book, supported 
by his knee. 

Vines, whose green leaves embraced flowers 
white as snow, were dipping in the waters with 
every breath of the summer air — a solitary 
bird hung trembling on the oaken bough, singing 
as it swung, and filling the place with bursts of 
wild music — the sun bathed the mass of fo- 
liage with his rays, while yonder wall of leaves 
was veiled in shadows — it was a beautiful 
scene, an hour of peace, but the soul of the boy 
was far away. 

Once in the space of an hour he moved his 
head. It was to grasp the hilt of the rusted 
sword. Then something like a shadow passed 
over his face, and his lip curled in a kind of 
defiant smile. 

Next his hand rested upon the book. A 
massive volume, bound in dark leather, with 
the traces of age upon its broad leaves, the 
odor of time upon its bold and rugged type. 
He lifted one lid of the book, and a blank leaf 
was revealed — blank, save that it bore a name, 
written in a quaint, round hand — 

JOHN WASHINGTON — 1 657. 

For this book, more than a hundred years 
old, had been brought from England by the 
grandfather of this boy, at least one hundred 
years before this summer day. That ancestor* 
an exile from his native soil, brought the book 
with him to the wilds of yirginia, and, believe 
me, it brought a bles-sing with it: for, after 
soothing many an hour of pain — lifting up 
many a head bowed down by sickness — nerving 
many a heart chilled by death — the book was 
now, even in this calm summer hour, doing its 

(21) 



22 WASHINGTON 

wondrous work in the brain of the dreaming 
boy. 

For there was power in the book. 

He began to turn its pages — slowly, and 
with an absent eye ; and as the broad leaves 
passed between his ringers, the words printed 
there took form and shape before the eye of 
the boy, and spoke to his soul with low, soft 
tones, very musical, and yet emphatic with a 
divine power. 

These were the visions which glided into 
the soul of the boy, and made his heart beat 
and his eye burn : 

He saw a whole people, herded together in 
a slavery, that neither spared the white hairs of 
age from its scorn, nor the frail limbs of in- 
fancy from its lash. It was in a far distant 
land, where a great river washed the base of 
pyramids, and where plains blooming with gar- 
dens and grand with temples, were canopied 
by a sky without one cloud. And no voice 
came to cheer this people in their slavery, no 
hand was extended to lift them from their bon- 
dage ; their history was written in two words — 
Tears and Death. 

But the time came when a son of a slave 
raised his arm against the oppressor of his 
brethren, and one night he spoke to the slaves, 
even to the people of his race, and bade them 
go out from bondage in the name of God ! 

And the slaves heard the voice of this son of 
a slave, and in the blackness of an awful night 

— when every lord was weeping over the corse 
of his first born — they went forth, a countless 
hive of bondsmen, swarming to their freedom. 
For they felt that the voice of God spoke from 
the lips of the son of a slave, and so through 
the gloom of night they began their sacred 
march of freedom. And the sea parted before 
them, and become dry land for the footsteps of 
the slaves, and rolled back in angry waves upon 
the armies of the oppressors who pursued them. 

The name of that people was Israel — and 
the son of the slave was Moses. 

Do you wonder that the heart of the boy 
burned within him, as he read the page which 
recorded the great Exodus? He read of Moses 
on the mountain top, in council with God 

— of Moses on Mount Pisgah, looking into a 
land like Eden — he read of the march in the 
wilderness — of the pillar which was cloud by 



AND HIS MEN. 

day and fire by night — and then the thought 
crossed his young soul — 

" Shall the people of the New World be trod- 
den in bondage/and will the Lord send to them 
in their hour of darkness, a Moses — a Deli* 
verer V 

The Boy turned over the pages of tne 
Book 

New visions ! 

The Patriot David hunted by Saul the 
King, and hemmed in the cave of Adullam, like 
a savage beast, his little band devoted to death, 
his own body doomed to fill a Traitor's grave. 
The King Solomon, rearing a Temple to the 
Living God, and embodying all the glories of a 
dream, in cedar and gold and stone. The 
Prophet Isaiah, singing, with his divine music, 
of the coming of a Blessed Time, when Ha- 
tred should be dumb, and the redeemed World 
listen only to the voice of Love. Judas Mac- 
cabeus fighting for his country, even amid her 
fallen altars, and holding on to her sacred ban- 
ner-staff, even when the land for which he 
fought produced no other fruit than corses — 
the Priest-Hero battling for the land of David 
against the legions of Rome, the cohorts of an 
enslaved World. 

These visions, and others as mighty and 
sublime, started from the pages of the Book, 
and glided into the soul of the dreaming boy. 

And these are the lessons which the old Book 
impressed upon the mind of the Boy : 

The battle which is waged for Freedom is 
holy in the sight of God 

It is more glorious to perish on the scaffold 
— even by the most abhorrent form of death, 
by the axe, the cord, or the dagger — than to 
live tamely under the yoke of Slavery. 

The declining sun cast his last ray upon the 
water — the breath of evening was among the 
trees. And yet the boy, with a brightening 
eye and a swelling heart, still turned over the 
pages of the Book — 

He saw a star shine through the gloom of 
night, and move gently onward over plains 
dotted with the shepherd's flock, and pause at 
length above an humble shed, flinging its rays 
upon the brow of a new-born Child. 

This was the most beautiful dream of all. 

For something there was in the life of that 
Child, born so humbly in a way-side shed, and 



THE BOY AND THE BOOK. 



23 



yet baptised in its first hour by the rays of a 
star, that melted into the heart at once, and 
filled it with a Peace unutterable. 
The Boy read on. 

The Child, grown to Boyhood, stands up in 
a lofty temple, and confutes grave Doctors and 
learned Scribes — heaps confusion upon their 
cunning and puts their intricate code of lies to 
shame — by the simple learning of a Heart that 
cannot Hate, a Heart that finds Truth and Law 
and Religion in the simple words — " Love one 
another." 

Then came scenes that made the heart of the 
boy beat with pulsations of vivid joy, succeeded 
by oppressive sadness. His eyes were drowned 
in tears. For the Child of whom he read, had 
grown to manhood. He was derided by the 
Priests, mocked by the minions of Kings, 
crowned with thorns, and put to death on a 
felon's tree — every instant of his agony, ac- 
companied by some unutterable mockery. And 
with all this — He — the being of whom the 
Boy was reading — gave to his enemies love 
for their scorn, blessings for their blows — yes, 
to the World which disowned him, and raised 
him in mockery upon its breast, he bequeathed 
a deathless Testament of Forgiveness, a holy 
Covenant of Brotherhood. And while the Boy 
was reading, the evening shadows fell. The 
sua. passed down the sky, leaving only one 
emile of light upon the waters. And yet the 
Face of the Divine Being seemed to start from 
the very -gloom, and look with its deathless 
eyes into the very eyes of the dreaming 
Boy. 



Do you assert that the lesson which the old 
Book taught to the mind and the heart of the 
Boy — in this still hour — ever lost its influence, 
ever passed away ? 

Or, did the words of the Book, dropping 
imperceptibly into the heart of that Boy-—" 
gentle as fragrant rain upon an opening flower 
and yet mightier than armies — appear in his 
Future life, in the shape of Deeds that win the 
love of a World ? 

Who shall count the imperceptible steps by 
which the soul of youth ascends to manhood, 
gathering fresh vigor at every step, and coming 
freer and bolder into the light, as the summit 
grows near and nearer ? 

Who shall estimate the influence which the 
old Book exercised upon the life of the solitary 
Boy? 

Other books would have taught him Glory 
in the place of Duty — the life of Alexander 
the Great would have learned him the blessing 
of wholesale murder — the history of Oliver 
Cromwell might have taught him the right to 
destroy one form of oppression by another 
form as galling. 

But the old Book had a different lesson. 
From the shadows of dead centuries it spoke 
to the heart of that Boy. Its words took 
shape, and rose before him, even from the 
tombs of long buried ages. And its lesson was 
simply — it is right to battle in the cause of 
freedom, because God has given the earth and 
its fruits to all his children — All. Yet never, 
even in warring for the right, forget that per- 
fect freedom is only found in perfect love. 



LEGEND FIFTH. 

THE CHALLENGE. 



One evening in the fall of 1754, three gen- 
tlemen were seated in a quiet room of an Inn ? 
talking with each other with evident earnest- 
ness, on a subject of much importance. 

It was a comfortable chamber, with carefully 
sanded floor, high-backed oaken chairs, and a 
side-board, or beaufet, covered with decanters 
and glasses. The centre of the room was oc- 
cupied by a large table, on which a lighted can- 
dle appeared, with a pair of pistols on one side, 
a sheet of paper, pens and an ink-stand on the 
other. And while the light of the candle fell 
over the animated faces of the three gentlemen, 
and the slight fire burning on the hearth imbued 
the atmosphere with comfortable warmth, they 
maintained their conversation with energetic 
gestures, yet in a subdued and whispering tone. 

The eldest of the three, a grim old man, with 
bald head, and grey whiskers on his bronzed 
cheek, was clad in a scarlet uniform. His 
form was rather portly : the expression of his 
grey eyes full of settled spleen ; the very wrin- 
kles about his compressed lips, indicated a hasty 
and irascible temper. The others, when they 
spoke to him, called him " Captain," for, some 
years before, he had served in the regular force 
of the British Army, and although he had long 
resigned his commission, the odor of his dig- 
nity, as well as the glitter of the uniform, 
clung around him still. 

He sat at the head of the table, resting his 
hand upon the sheet of letter paper on which 
he was writing, and writing a challenge for a 
Duel. 

The second of the party, a tall man, with fair 
complexion, yet firm and regular features, was 
clad in the costume of a planter ; he sat in an 
arm chair, calmly smoking a cigar, and now 
and then adding a word, which was to the con- 



versation like a spark to a keg of gunpowder. 
He was called " 'Squire." 

The third, a slender young man, almost effemi- 
nate, in his appearance, and attired in a close-fit- 
ting British uniform, sat at the foot of the table, 
his delicate hands laid upon the pistols. They 
were intended for the anticipated duel. The 
eyes of this young man, large, dark, and in- 
tensely brilliant, illumined a pale, thoughtful 
face, and his mouth was impressed with a 
smile, which had as much of scorn as of mirth 
for its meaning. He was known by the others 
as " the Ensign." 

And these three men, by the light of a wax 
candle, cheered by the kindly warmth of a wood 
fire, had secluded themselves in the Inn-room, 
in the early hours of an autumnal evening, in 
order to plan a deadly combat, and prepare the 
way over which two living men might journey 
speedily to their coffins and the grave-yard. 

It was, in fact, a Council of War. 

Let us listen to the " Ensign," while he ex- 
plains the cause of the duel; there is music in 
his delicately modulated voice : 

" This day, gentlemen, our town was the 
scene of the greatest excitement. An election 
was held for a member of Assembly: of 
course there was a great crowd, and a vast 
deal of hard talking and hard swearing. The 
excitement was no means diminished by the 
presence of a regiment of soldiers, who now 
make their quarters in the town. I have the 
honor to hold the commission of "Ensign" in 
that regiment, gentlemen, as you well know. 
The colonel is idolized by his men, although 
he is, like myself, only a boy of twenty-two. 
You know the history of his campaign in the 
West, among the French and Indians. What 
Virginian does not know it by heart ? And 



WASHINGTON 

this Colonel, idolized by his men, loved by 
every Virginian heart, was this day, in the 
presence of hundreds — yes, in the court-yard 
of Alexandria — levelled to the earth by a 
blow from a club !" 

The Ensign lifted the pistols, and glanced 
into the faces of his friends, as if to note the 
effect of his words. 

" Saw it myself," said the 'Squire, speaking 
between puffs of smoke. " Colonel was struck 
to the earth, by a man not five feet high ; 
Colonel is six feet three inches. Dispute 
ibout the election merits of the different can- 
didates. Colonel gave Payne the lie ! and 
Payne seized a club and let him have it. Sum 
total of the whole matter — the lie and the 
blow have passed, and they must fight." 

The 'Squire knocked the ashes from his 
cigar. 

"I have written the challenge," gruffly ex- 
claimed the Captain, looking round with an 
emphatic grimace. " Ensign, will you act as 
the Colonel's friend, or shall I ? As pretty a 
little affair as I ever saw. They can take a 
little bit of green meadow, by daylight to-mor- 
row, and fire a couple of rounds, and settle the 
matter like — gentlemen." 

And the worthy Captain confirmed his sen- 
timent with an oath of remarkable emphasis. 
" They must fight, said the 'Squire, " as Vir- 
ginians!" 

" The Colonel will be forever disgraced as a 
soldier unless he shoots this Payne," said the 
Ensign, in his mild voice. 

"Zounds gentlemen, a blow! D'ye hear 

me, a blow with a club " began the 

Captain. 

" In the open court-yard, too, in the pre- 
sence of hundreds," interrupted the 'Squire. 

" The very soldiers would have massacred 
Payne, if the Colonel had not interfered," said 
the Ensign, joining in the chorus. "Certainly 
it is the most aggravated case that ever came to 
my notice." 

It was an aggravated case. The Colonel, a 
gallant youth of twenty-two, who had done 
brave service in the wilderness, to be degraded 
by a blow, and not only covered with insult, 
but struck to the very earth, at the feet of his 
antagonist. It was galling. There was no 
ether way of redressing the wrong, and wash- 



AND HIS MEN. 

ing out the insult, save in the blood of one or 
other, or both of the parties. And then 

"I know ijie Colonel," said the Ensign, 
still handling the pistols; "calm and resolved 
in the hour of battle, he is a man of impetu- 
ous temper; there is hot blood in his veins." 

" He is in the next chamber," whispered 
the 'Squire, " boiling over with a sense of the 
insult, no doubt. Do not speak loud. He 
will overhear us — it is not well to drive him 
to madness." 

"And yet he must hear us," — the portly 
Captain started from his chair, "and without 
delay. For, odds-blood, d'ye see, we must 
arrange the preliminaries." 

He moved to the door of the next chamber, 
holding the written challenge in his hand. 
The Ensign followed, grasping the pistols, and 
the 'Squire came next with his — cigar. 

The Captain knocked — a pause — no an- 
swer. 

" He is mad with excitement, no doubt," 
whispered the ex-officer, turning to his com- 
rades with a sly leer, for he considered a duel 
as a capital joke, and the funeral which fol- 
lowed it, as a striking lesson for the young. 

He pushed open the door, and the party 
entered the room in which the Colonel sat 
alone — doubtless chafed to very madness by 
the memory of the wrong. 

A wax candle, burning on a table, revealed 
the furniture of a spacious chamber, and the 
figure of a gentleman, absorbed in writing. 
And while he wrote, with his hand gliding 
rapidly over the paper, he cast his eyes, very 
often, toward a miniature which lay near his 
hand. His back was turned toward the three ; 
of course they could not see his face nor re- 
mark the agitation of his features. 

He did not hear the opening door, nor heed 
the sound of footsteps, but absorbed by his 
thoughts, continued writing. 

" Go forward, and tap him on the shoulder," 
whispered the Colonel to the Ensign. 

The Ensign advanced on tip-toe, and gliding 
over the dark mahogany floor, raised his hand 
to place it on the Colonel's shoulder, when his 
eye was arrested by the miniature, and his up- 
lifted hand dropped by his side. 

He sank backward, with a noiseless footstep, 
and whispered to the gruff Captain. 



THE CKA 

" I cannot do it now. It is his mother's 
picture. He is writing to her — a last letter, 
may be." 

The 'Squire now assumed the task, and 
said, " Good evening, Colonel 1" in a loud, 
hearty voice. 

The Colonel rose, and greeted his visitors 
with a manner which combined all the grace 
and warmth of youth with the dignity of riper 
years. 

As he stood near the table, his form in all 
its majesty of stature, and his face with all its 
firmness of character, disclosed by the light, 
the three gentlemen could not but acknowledge 
that he presented a splendid mark for a — 
duelling pistol. 

The mark of the blow darkened his white 
forehead. His hair, nut brown in color, and 
without powder, fell in careless masses aside 
from his face. He was very pale ; his eyes 
were bloodshot, and from his loosened cravat 
to his torn ruffles, everything about his attire, 
had a wild and disordered appearance. 

As he stood with one hand resting on the 
table, and the other extended toward his 
friends, they might recognize that blue uniform, 
which had been marked many a time by the 
bullet of the foe. 

" I have written a challenge, Colonel,'' said 
the Captain, advancing. 

"He struck you down in the presence of hun- 
dreds" — and the Ensign drew near. 

"As a Virginian you must fight;" — the 
Planter also advanced. 

" Gentlemen — my friends — " said the Col- 
onel, in a voice which was tremulous with 
emotion, "you say very justly to me, ' you 
must fight.' This is the law of the code of 
honor ; is it not ? Well : I will meet Mr. 
Payne. I have made my preparations. I 
have just written a letter to my mother, in 
which I inform her that to-morrow morning I 
will go out into a meadow, and let Mr. Payne 
shoot me through the heart. That is right — 
is it not ?" 

" But you forget, my dear Colonel, that you 
are decidedly the best shot of the two. And 
as for the sword, Payne cannot come near you. 
You will shoot Payne, my dear Colonel, and 
there the matter will end." 

The Ensign uttered these words in his 



LLENGE. 27 

mildest voice, and \* ith the most gentlemanly 
bow in the world. 

" Yes, it is true the matter will end theie," 
said the Colonel, as he saw his friends encircle 
him, " unless, indeed, some day or other I 
should happen to meet a wife, or a mother, or 
even a sister and hear words like those 
whispered in my ear — ' Murderer ! I demand 
my child! or my '■brother V or yet my ' hits- 
band /' This, you will confess, would be very 
unpleasant." 

The three friends were silent. 

The Planter lit the end of his cigar. The 
Ensign examined the mountings of the pistols. 
The Captain began to be very much interested 
in the words of the written challenge. 

And the Colonel, looking from face to face, 
awaited an answer. 

" So you all see, my good friends*, that if 
there is to be a corpse" — he paused, and the 
three friends began to feel uneasy — " a corpse 
in this affair, I would much rather be that 
corpse myself, than to have the weight of a 
murder on my soul." 

"But the insult — it was galling," cried the 
Ensign, his face flushed and his eye brighten- 
ing. 

" It was indeed galling," said the Colonel, 
" but the provocation ?" 

" You gave him the lie ! and you were right, 

by !" said the Captain, in his deepest 

bass. 

" Let us understand the question fully," 
resumed the Colonel, in that deep tone, and 
with that steady glance which exercised an 
irresistible influence over his friends. " I am 
six feet three inches in height. You all ac- 
knowledge that I possess great personal 
strength. Mr. Payne, on the contrary, is 
neither remarkable for his stature nor for his 
physical power. And I — in the presence of 
my soldiers and my friends, call Mr. Payne 
by the most opprobrious word known in our 
language. Was I right, or was I wrong, my 
friends ? Which do you most admire, gentle- 
men, my gallantry in thus insulting Mr. 
Payne, or the courage of Mr. Payne in knock- 
ing me down — by an unexpected blow, it is 
true — but in the presence of my soldiers and 
my friends ?" 

A deep pause followed these words. 



2Q WASHINGTON 

Zounds ! If I can comprehend you, 
Colonel," cried the Captain. 

" Am I to shoot Mr. Payne because I in- 
sulted him ?" asked the Colonel ! — " or, am I 
to shoot him because he was too brave to bear 
my insult ? These are questions which I would 
like settled before I kill him, gentlemen." 

And the Colonel turned away — looked forth 
from the window upon the star-lit sky — while 
his three friends gazed wonderingly in each 
other's faces. 

The Colonel remained by the window for at 
least five minutes, gazing upon the sky, while 
the mark of the blow darkened over his fore- 
head. His thoughts may have been dark, 
bitter — but while he stood there, his three 
friends remained near the table, looking into 
one another's faces, but without speaking a 
word. 

"If you were in my place, Ensign, what 
would you do ?" asked the Colonel, as he 
came toward the light again. 

" I would sooner be tied to a-tree, among 
the Indians, with their scalping knives flashing 
before my face, than to bear that blow !" said 
the Ensign, with a gleaming eye. 

" And I would sooner lead off ten forlorn 
hopes, old as I am, than to avoid one challenge, 
or skulk one duel !" 

The old soldier pulled his whiskers with 
needless violence, and stamped his foot upon 
the floor until the chamber shook again. 

" And as for me, I'm neither a young nor 
an old soldier, but as a Virginian, sooner than 
bear that blow, I would blow my brains out 
with one of these pistols." 

The Colonel lowered his head— his face 
was shadowed by thought. 

" Wherefore, gentlemen ?" he asked, in a 
changed voice, as he shaded his eyes with his 
hand. 

" Because, to refuse to fight, in a case like 
this, is to wear the name of a — coward." 

" And you have not the courage to wear 
the name of coward?" exclaimed the Colonel, 
still shading his face — " Yes, gentlemen," — 
and he raised his face, no longer gloomy and 
pale, but flushed and smiling — " by your own 
confession, the courage manifested in dying at 
an Indian stake, or in perishing in a forlorn 
hope, or in blowing one's brains out with a 



AND HIS MEN. 

suicide's pistol, is nothing — absolutely nothing 
— compared with that kind of courage which 
enables a man to face the name of coward, 
aye, and wear it too !" 

The young Colonel was magnificent in 
battle — stately in the ball room — glorious on 
his war horse — but now, as he pronounced 
these words, with a flushed cheek, brilliant eye, 
and clear deep voice, his three friends acknow- 
ledged in their whispers that although his ideas 
were "deuced bad," his appearance, his man- 
ner, was imposing beyond all power of words. 

The countenance of the three friends, how- 
ever, were clouded. 

" My dear fellow," and the pale Ensign laid 
his hand upon the arm of his friend ; " I have 
fought by your side. You know me. These 
things abstractly considered, mark you, are 
precisely as you say. But come to the 
practical view of the matter. There is not a 
young man in Virginia with prospects like 
yours. You will soon be called upon to lead 
your regiment against the common enemy, to 
wit, the allied bands of French and Indians. 
But you cannot go out to battle for your 
country with a dishonored name. You have 
been disgraced by a blow — disgraced, mark 
you. You must wash out your disgrace in 
blood." 

The Ensign spoke with feeling. His com- 
panions murmured assent. 

The brow of the Colonel grew cloudy ; his 
eyes brightened with a deadly fire. 

" There must be a duel," he said with some- 
thing like scorn or vengeance on his lip. 
" Gentlemen will you excuse me for half an 
hour? I myself will write the challenge." 

The three friends retired from the room, 
and the Colonel was left alone. 

Alone, with the fatal mark upon his fore- 
head, the insult rankling in his heart, and the 
— face of his widowed mother before his 
ej^es. 

We dare not describe the emotions of that 
half hour. 

When it passed, he came forth, and stood 
on the threshold, holding a billet in his right 
hand. The three friends started to their feet, 
with one movement of surprise. The Colonel 
stood before them, not in military array, but in 
festival costume ; his hair carefully powdered, 



THE CHALLENGE. 



29 



his dark attire relieved by a white cravat and 
white waistcoat, snow-white ruffles about his 
hands, and neat diamond buckles on his shoes. 
By his side he wore a plain dress sword. 

But his powdered hair and white cravat, 
while they threw his remarkable features into 
bold relief, and by contrast, gave a deeper 
bloom to his cheek, a clearer light to his eyes, 
only made the mark on his forehead more 
dark and palpable. 

" Which of you will hear this challenge to 
Mr. Payne ?" 

The three friends answered as with one 
voice — "I will — and I — and I!" 

" In my room — at an early hour — to- 
morrow!" said the Colonel, very calmly, but 
with a singular emphasis upon the words. 
" You understand, gentlemen ?" 

He handed the challenge to the Ensign. 

"In your room" — began the portly Cap- 
tain. 

" In my room, my good friend — for es- 
pecial reasons," answered the young officer, 
" and hark ye, Captain ! Let as many of our 
mutual friends, as were witnesses to the insult 
be present, at the hour of seven, you will re- 
member ?" 

"That's it, my boy," cried the bluff Cap- 
tain. " Now you begin to talk !" 

But the Ensign did not like the strange 
calmness of the Colonel's face, nor did the 
Planter know how to construe his festival at- 
tire. 

" You are not in uniform, Colonel," he 
whispered. 

" Oh, no !" and the Colonel glanced at his 
attire ; "you remember there is a ball this 
evening. I must be present. There will be 
many of our fair ladies and a goodly array of 



gentlemen, no doubt. On no account would 1 
be absent from the ball " — 

" Yet you may have some little affairs to ar- 
range," hinted the Ensign — "before a duel, 
Colonel, there are letters to write, and you will 
need some sleep" — 

The Colonel took his brother officer by the 
hand and looked intently into his eyes — 

" Harry ! Do you think a man who has 
resolved to commit murder by the morrow's 
light, can pass the night before the deed, in 
writing letters, or in wholesome slumber, 
cheered by pleasant dreams ? No ! If I must 
murder, or be murdered to morrow morning, 
for the sake of Honor, I will pass this night in 
the dance — among beautiful ladies — and 
groups of friends. We will have gaiety — 
dance — song! Come, my friends — who's 
for the ball?" 

And the gallant Colonel led forth his friends 
to the festival of that night — all save the 
Ensign, who went to bear the challenge 
And whether the beautiful women of Virginia 
flouted in the dance, or strains of merry mu- 
sic awoke the echoes of the lighted hall, or 
groups of admirers clustered round some fair 
one, pre-eminent for her loveliness — still, 
amid every form of gaiety, the Colonel was 
the most prominent ; the first, the liveliest and 
the handsomest of all the men who were 
gathered there. 

And all the while as a King might bear his 
crown, or a victor his laurels, the Colonel 
bore the livid marks upon his forehead. 

And the dancers who saw him, so gallant 
and so gay — shuddered when they saw the 
wound of the fatal blow upon his forehead — 
and many a fair daughter of Virginia whis 
pered, with accents of undisguised terror, the 
words — "To-morrow! * * * The Duel!" 



LEGEND SIXTH. 



THE duel: 

OR, COURAGE THAT IS NOT AFRAID OF THE NAME OF "COWARD." 



The morrow came. 

The room of the Colonel in the Inn of 
Alexandria, was the theatre of a remarkable 
scene. Through the uncurtained windows 
came the light of the early dawn, and there 
you might behold a glimpse of a river, glim- 
mering faintly in the ray of a fading star. 

Silence reigned through the chamber — 
silence and gloom — although some twenty 
persons were assembled there. In one corner 
stood the bed, with unruffled coverlet ; in the 
centre was the table, and around were seated 
the gentlemen who had been summoned as 
witnesses of the approaching Duel. 

These gentlemen — some of whom were 
officers in the Colonel's regiment, others 
planters of broad lands and immense fortunes 
— sat in silence, gazing with folded arms upon 
the table which stood in the centre, or through 
the gloom into each others' faces. 

The bluff Captain was there, but he had 
forgotten all his apt sayings about Honor and 
Chivalry ; near him the Ensign, whose pale 
face, paler in fact than ever, indicated a night 
of anxious thought, and then our friend the 
Planter, who although the hour was early, and 
he had not yet broken his fast, still pressed 
a cigar between his lips, and hid his face in a 
curtain of smoke. 

The Colonel and the challenged man alone 
were absent. As for the Colonel, he was in 
the next room, attending to his letters, and — 
perchance — to his last will and testament. 

The first ray of sunrise shot through the 
window and trembled upon the vacant table. 

As if that beam, breaking in upon the gloom, 
had unloosened their hearts and tongues, the 
gentlemen began to whisper with each other. 
One spoke of the sad and fatal necessity of 



Murder involved in the Code of Honor — 
another of the widows and orphans who had 
been made by that blessed code — a third of 
the efficacy of a sword thrust, in healing 
broken hearts, or of the short and easy method 
of patching up "self-respect" by a — pistol 
shot. 

Some spoke of the character of the young 
Colonel, who, but twenty-two years old, might 
be cold and stiff before an hour was gone. 

And others of his antagonist — of the virtues 
which bound him to the hearts of many dear 
friends — of the ties which held him fast to 
life. Before an hour, very possibly, that 
antagonist would be a — corpse. 

Our friend, the bluff Captain closed all argu- 
ment by the emphatic — "The Colonel's 
been struck and he must fight ! " The Planter 
said nothing, but smoked his cigar ; maybe he 
was thinking of his home, and calling to mind 
the Mother who might hear of the Colonel's 
death, ere the day was two hours older. 

As for the Ensign, he had nothing to say. 
It was his part to see that the weapons of 
murder were fairly prepared, and that the 
murder itself was done according to rule. That 
was all he had to do with the matter. And he 
waited for the hour of the performance with 
commendable impatience. 

At last the Ensign pulled out his watch, 
and announced the hour of — " Seven ! " 

There was a general movement, and at the 
same moment the two doors of the chamber 
were suddenly opened. 

Through the door opening into the hall, 
came a very tall, slim gentleman with a pistol- 
case under his arm. 

"The second of Mr. Payne!" burst from 
twenty tongues 



32 



WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 



And this tall slim gentleman, with the pistol- 
case under his arm, was followed by a gen- 
tleman whose short and stout form — well 
knit withal — and not unpleasing features, 
indicated the antagonist of the Colonel, Mr. 
Payne himself, who yesterday levelled the 
popular favorite in the dust. 

The second bowed and laid his pistol-case 
on the table ; Mr. Payne bowed and folded 
his arms. His courage was unquestioned, but 
his face was impressed with an expression of 
seriousness — maybe — gloom. 

" The Colonel is good with the rifle, good 
with the pistol, good with the small sword!" 
So the whisper ran round the room. 

45 And he'll wing his man," rather rudely 
whispered the Captain. 

The Ensign rose, bowed twice, once to Mr. 
Payne, then to the second, and then in low 
tones, began to confer with the second upon 
the arms to be used, and the form to be observed 
in the approaching duel. Their whispers 
alone broke the breathless stillness. With 
rifle or with sword, or with pistol ? Here in 
this room, or in the open air ? Shall a fallen 
'kerchief be the signal for them to begin? 
How many thrusts, how many shots, how 
much blood before " satisfaction" is given? 

Such was the hurried conversation of the 
" seconds," conducted in animated whispers, 
now with a bow and again with a smile. The 
politest man in the world is the "second" of 
a duel. 

Meanwhile Mr. Payne stood alone' — his 
arms folded — his eyes now fixed on the 
mantel-piece, now wandering to the window. 
Perchance he felt that his position was rather 
awkward ; or thought how cheerful the sunshine 
looked, and how gloomy it would seem, if in 
an hour or more, those beams would light up 
the cold face of a corpse — or the cold faces 
of two corpses. 

Mr. Payne awaited with great impatience 
for the end of the second's conversation, and 
or the coming of — his antagonist. 

We have forgotten the opening of the other 
door. Through that door the Colonel came, 
at the very moment that Mr. Payne and his 
friend strode through the other. He remained 
for a moment concealed by the shadow of the 
bed, and then stepped suddenly into view, 
before the very eyes of Mr. Payne. 



That gentleman started back with involun 
tary surprise, as he caught first, a glimpse of 
his antagonist's shadow, and then a full view 
of that antagonist himself. 

A murmur swelled through the apartment, 
at the contrast presented by the personal 
appearance of Mr. Payne, as compared with 
the tall and imposing figure of the Virginia 
Colonel. Not that Mr. Payne was at all an 
unhandsome man, nor that his firm features 
lack expression, but the Colonel was a man 
whom you would remark not only for the 
majesty of his stature, but for the expression 
of his face, among a crowd of ten thousand 
men. 

And a burning blush overspread Mr. Payne's 
face, as he saw his antagonist standing before 
him, looking into his face — wearing the very 
uniform which he had worn yesterday — 
bearing upon his brow the livid scar of that 
fatal insult. 

But Mr. Payne had no time for thought. 

" We have arranged the preliminaries" 
exclaimed the seconds, turning suddenly round, 
and starting with surprise as they beheld their 
principals standing face to face. 

Again Mr. Payne blushed as he saw the 
eye of the Colonel fixed upon him, and then 
folding his arms, he knit his brow and gazed 
sternly into his antagonist's face. 

The gentlemen present rose with one move- 
ment. You might have heard the beating of 
your own heart, all was so breathlessly still. 
Not a spectator but anticipated a personal con- 
flict. 

" Mr. Payne," the Colonel began. 
Mr. Payne retreated a step, still folding his 
arms. 

" Yesterday I called you 1 Liar !" ' 

" You did" cried Payne, with a flush of 
anger. "And — " 

" You levelled me to the ground," continued 
the Colonel. " Behold the mark of your blow !" 

He paused — the silence deepened. The 
Colonel's voice and look were calm, but firm ; 
Payne's face was flushed ; his eye indignant. 

" And now, sir, I have a word to say to 
you," continued the Colonel, still calm and 
firm. " And first let me ask a question. Is 
it manly — is it Christian, to attempt to justify 
a wrong by a murder ? Or, is it more 
generous, more just, to confess a wrong with 




s 



(33) 



THE 

frankness, and solicit forgiveness from the 
injured 1 Yesterday I applied an unjust and 
ungentlemanly epithet to you — you promptly 
avenged yourself — are you satisfied ? Here's 
my hand — let us be friends !" 

Long before the words had passed from the 
Colonel's mouth — long before the spectators 
recovered from their stupefaction — Payne had 
thing both hands toward his antagonist. The 
tear» were streaming from his eyes. 

The seconds recoiled — the audience had 
no speech ; they could only stand and look. 

Then the Colonel, with the mark on his 
forehead, led Mr. Payne toward the table. A 
decanter stood there, with two glasses". 

" Gentlemen," said the Colonel, filling a 
glass and handing it to Payne, and then raising 
one to his own lips — " I give you the health 
of my good friend, Mr. Payne." 

They emptied their glasses with one impulse. 

" And now, gentlemen, allow me to hope, 
that when, in after time, you recall the various 
personal combats which you have witnessed* 
you will remember with something like 
admiration the Duel of Mr. Payne and his 
enemy, George Washington !" 

Was there one man in that assemblage who 
could have called young Washington, Coward ? 

And it was because he had " courage enough 
to bear the name of Coward" that he became 
the man of counsel and of Battle — the 
Deliverer of a Country — the President of a 
free People — his name the watchword of all 
time. 

For a moment let us glance upon a far 
different scene, which took place after the 
Revolution. 

There is the blush of dawn upon the 
Hudson. In a glade, shaded by rocks over- 
grown with vines, and canopied by a glimpse 
of blue sky, two men stand ready for the Duel. 



duel. 35 

In other words, they have come here, in the 
silence of the morning time, to do Murder, in 
accordance with the rules of Honor. 

Both of the same age — the very prime of 
mature manhood — renowned alike in the 
history of their country — they stand apart, 
while the " seconds" load the pistols and 
measure the ground. 

One attracts your attention with his great 
forehead, indented between the brows, and 
swelling with the sublime proportions of a 
great soul. 

That is Alexander Hamilton, 

The other wins your gaze, not only by his 
forehead, but by the indescribable, almost 
supernatural fascination of his eyes. 

That is Aaron Burr. 

They have been together in the Revolution, 
in the tent of Washington, — amid the perils 
of battle, — among the wintry hills of Valley 
Forge. 

Both great intellects, renowned alike for elo- 
quence and courage ; they have come here, to 
steal side-long glances at each other for a little 
while — and then stand back to back, and, at 
a word, wheel and murder. 

Burr challenges Hamilton, but Hamilton, 
unlike Washington, has not the " Courage to 
bear the name of Coward.'''' Hamilton, con- 
vinced, as any man in his senses must be, that 
the law of Duel is simply a law of Murder, 
accepts the challenge, and flings his life away 
like Abner of old. 

Gaze upon the cold face of Alexander 
Hamilton — behold Aaron Burr shrink shnd- 
deringly away from the corpse — and then 
contrast the conduct of Hamilton and Burr, 
the one accepting the challenge tendered by 
the other — with the sublime courage of 
Washington — "a Courage which was not 
afraid of the name of Coward." 



LEGEND SEVENTH. 

THE HUNTER OF THE ALLEGH ANTES. 



Ninety-three years ago — from the ninth of 
Juiv, 1848 — a man of almost giant stature, 
clad in the garb of a hunter, emerged from the 
shadows of a western forest, and stood in the 
sunlight, upon the summit of a rock, which over- 
hung the waves of a wood-embosomed river. 

It was a calm day in summer. There was 
no cloud in the sky ; no shadow on the waves. 
The air whispered in subdued murmurs through 
the leaves of the colossal trees, and the river, 
flashing in the sun, rolled through the solitude 
with wild flowers scattered upon its bosom. 

And the hunter, a man of gaunt form, and 
sunburnt face, seamed with scars, rested his 
arms upon his rifle, and surveyed the scene 
with a quiet delight. Standing thus alone, 
amid the silence and verdure of the green 
forest, he looked like an impersonation of those 
rugged pioneers of the white race, who com- 
bine the craft of civilization, with the costume 
and manners of the red men. 

The scene was marked by peculiar features. 
Gazing up the river, the hunter beheld on one 
side the sombre verdure of a trackless forest, 
advancing to the very brink of the waters ; on 
the other a level plain — bordered by woods 
— succeeded by a sloping hill, with depth of 
woods beyond, rising boldly into the summer 
sky. 

There were dismal ravines among those 
woods — paths of difficulty and danger, beside 
that river ; and the hunter clutched his rifle, 
while a grim smile crossed his scarred features 
as the thought of his Indian foes flashed over 
his brain. 

Still, clad in his garb of skins, with a hunt- 
ing- enirt worn over all, and girt by a leathern 
belt to his waist, this man of the wilderness, 
whose delight it was to track ihe wild beast to 



its lair, or follow the Indian on his way of 
death, leaned upon his rifle, while his sunken 
eyes began to flash and brighten in his sun- 
burnt face. 

It was high noon. 

The silence of the wilderness was unbroken 
by a sound. 

Here waved the forest leaves, gorgeous with 
the drapery of summer ; there flashed the river, 
bearing stray flowers upon its tremulous 
bosom ; yonder, on the northern shore, 
extended the plain, with the hill rising gently 
toward the distant wood. 

In fact, the river and the plain, and sloping 
hill, embosomed among woods, smiled in the 
noonday sun, without one floating cloud to 
shadow their beauty, or dim the tranquil azure 
of the summer sky. 

While the hunter stood on the projecting 
rock, drinking the silence and the fragrance of 
the untrodden wild, a change came suddenly 
over the scene. The blast of a war trumpet 
was borne upon the air ; a war banner flut- 
tered in glimpses on the sight. 

That trumpet was the voice of an army ; 
that banner waved over the heads of twelve 
hundred men in battle array. 

It was a very beautiful sight to see, as 
emerging from the shadows, they came along 
the southern bank of the river, with the great 
forest on one hand, and the river, rolling and 
flashing on the other. Banners were waving 
there, and drum answered to trumpet, as they 
came, and the tread of twelve hundred men 
awoke the echoes of the woody glen. 

There were British soldiers with their scar- 
let coats glaring, and their burnished arms 
flashing in the sun ; there was the pride of the 
Virginian chivalry, clad in huntsman attire ; 

(37) 



38 WASHINGTON 

and there, riding leisurely along, upon a snow- 
white steed, came the general of the host, upon 
whose word hung twelve hundred lives. 

He was a man of commanding presence, 
with a golden-hilted sword by his side, and a 
laced chapeau upon his forehead. A scarlet 
coat, adorned with gold lace, displayed the 
strength and elegance of his warrior form ; his 
florid face, stamped with an abiding com- 
placency, was ruffled with a smile. 

Around him rode a band of gallant men, the 
officers of his staff, arrayed, like their General, 
in scarlet and tinsel. 

Only one in that band was attired in dif- 
ferent costume ; only one did not mingle in 
the laughter, or take part in the careless con- 
versation. 

He was a youth of twenty-three years, and 
his pale cheek bore traces of sickness. Over 
his blue uniform a hunting shirt was thrown, 
but it did not conceal the noble outline of his 
tall form, nor altogether hide the proportions 
of his manly chest. Mounted upon a dark 
bay horse, he rode forward in silence, his grey 
eyes flashing from his pale face with steady 
light. 

On this side the woods — yonder the river 
— around him the glitter of tinsel and the 
waving of plumes, and the youth of twenty-three 
years laid one hand absently upon the flowing 
mane of his steed, while the other rested upon 
the hilt of his sword. His thoughts were far 
away — his absent eye and pale cheek con- 
trasted strongly with the laughing faces which 
encircled him. 

The General and his Staff were thinking gay 
thoughts and talking pleasant words in that 
quiet summer hour. 

The youth of twenty-three was the only 
silent one in the band. Unsheathing his gold- 
hilted sword, the General pointed to the 
opposite shore, where the level plain, em- 
bosomed among woods, rose into a gently slo- 
ping hill, backed by a sombre forest and a 
smiling sky : 

" Before sunset, Fort Duquesne is ours," he 
said, with a smile. " Our men will cross the 
river at this ford, ascend yonder hill, and 
traverse ten miles of forest road, which lie 
between us and the fort, ere the setting of the 
sun. The banner of his Majesty will wave 
over the conquered fort before the day is gone." 



AND HIS MEN. 

The gallant men who rode near their General 
chorussed his words, and amid the tramp of 
that legion of armed men, the roll of drum and 
the peal of trumpet, you might have heard 
their exclart.ations — 

" Before sunset, the flag will wave over the 
conquered fort !" 

The youth of twenty-three did not mingle 
in the chorus. He cast his glance toward the 
opposite shore — toward those magnificent 
woods, whose depths embosomed dismal 
ravines — toward the far-off hill-top, which 
was separated from Fort Duquesne by a wil- 
derness of ten miles ; and his lip was com- 
pressed, his cheek grew paler, his eye gathered 
new fire. 

Only the night before he had started from 
the sick couch and mounted his war horse. 
Perchance the fever still lingered in his veins ; 
but his face was shrouded in sadness — his 
heart was shadowed by a vague but over- 
whelming foreboding. 

The General turned to him with a laugh — 
" Colonel, you are gloomy to-day," he said. 
" But then you have just risen from a sick 
couch, and the road is rough and fatigukig. 
In a little while, however, the danger and the 
peril will be over. To-night we will sleep in 
Fort Duquesne, and drink a bumper to the 
health of our King." 

The young man urged his horse nearer to 
the General's side. 

" General," he said, bending toward him, 
and speaking in a whisper, " there are danger- 
ous coverts on yonder shore — fatal ravines 
in the depths of yonder woods. Let me take 
a band of picked men, and beat the covert and 
explore the ravines, before the whole body of 
our men cross the river." 

There was an inexpressible earnestness in 
his voice — a steady light in his grey eye. 

The General uttered an ejaculation of impa- 
tience : 

" There is no danger,"he exclaimed, assum- 
ing all the dignity of a General in the regular 
service. " To-night we will sleep in Fort 
Duquesne." 

The young man did not reply ; and while 
the bugle answered to the drum, and the 
solemn grandeur of the forest was contrasted 
by the flashing of the waters, General Brad- 



THE HUNTER OF THE ALLEGH ANTES. 



39 



dock and Colonel Washington rode side by 
side on the border of the Monongahela. 

Twelve hundred men, some clad in scarlet, 
others in blue — some lifting, their glittering 
bayonets into light — others girding their tried 
rifles in sinewy arms, were marching there, 
with their General in their midst, and the sad 
eye cf George Washington glancing from line 
to line. 

And the same breeze which fanned the pale 
cheek of ihe young soldier, lifted the great 
banner of England into light, and tossed its 
gay emblazonry over plumes and bayonets of 
the armed men. 

It was a sight, mingling grandeur and beauty, 
to see these soldiers emerge from the solemn 
shadows, and take their way along the river's 
verge ; but as the glittering array, parting into 
three divisions, prepared to ford the river, while 
the bugles rang with merrier peals, .the scene 
assumed a deeper interest, a stranger and wilder 
grandeur. 

Braddock, reining his white horse near the 
shore, saw the first division, of three hundred 
men, march into the waves in exact order, 
while the banner fluttered in their van. The 
face of the brave General was clad in smiles ; 
his voice, heard in repeated commands, was 
gay and boisterous. 

And as the bayonets of the first division 
glittered near the northern shore, the second 
division, two hundred strong, left the southern 
shore, with the roll of drum and the clang of 
trumpet. Beautiful it was to see their burn- 
ished arms, reflecting the blaze of noonday, 
and firing the tremulous waves with masses of 
dazzling light. 

And as the General saw the first division 
ascend the opposite bank, the second fording 
the river ; he himself led on the third, — the 
main body of his brave army, — and while 
his white horse bent down to slake his thirst 
in the cool waves, he beheld the artillery and 
the baggage train, slowly urging onward, while 
the thoughtful young soldier, rode in silence at 
his side. 

There was no smile upon the face of youngs 
Washington. True, the sky was smiling be- 
yond the opposite woods, but dismal ravines 
were hidden beneath those groups of foliage ; 



deathly coverts lurked beneath those bowers 
of summer verdure. 

And yet it was a magnificent thing to see 
this brave band parting into three divisions — 
one flashing on yonder plain, the second 
emerging from the waves, and the third toiling, 
on in mid-stream — while from each division 
trumpet answered trumpet, and the clattering 
of arms, the tread of regular columns, the 
neighing of war steeds, gave omen of a day of 
glory, to be followed by a night of victorious 
repose. 

The grim hunter who stood upon the rocks 
beheld it all. Saw the first division ascend 
the hill, the second emerge upon the opposite 
shore, and the third in the midst of the waters, 
and then the animated face of Braddock, side 
by side with the pale visage of W ashington, for 
a moment enchained his gaze. 

He left the tree which had sheltered him ; 
he descended from the rock, and drew near the 
shore. A solitary soldier, whose red coat 
shamed the hunter's grim array, lingered there, 
the last to cross the river, the last man of the 
army. His foot was in the water, when the 
hand of the hunter pressed his shoulder. 

" Drink, man, drink, from the river, before 
you cross," cried the hunter to the astonished 
soldier, " For there's a warm day before you, 
and your next draught will be of blood." 

And while the soldier, startled at the appear- 
ance of the gaunt backwoodsman, shrunk from 
his touch, the hunter clasped his rifle more 
firmly in his knotted fingers, and dashed 
through the river's waves. 

We will see him again, when the fight goes 
on most horribly under its pall of eloud ; the 
rifle which he grasps is the fate of yonder 
gallant army. 

Meanwhile, Braddock, passing from the 
river to the shore, — his eye drinking in, with 
one quick glance, the blue sky, the encircling 
woods, and the hillside clad in scarlet and steel, 
— Braddock we say, the General of the army, 
who had been trained to war on the parade 
ground of Hyde Park, turned with a smile to 
the young Virginian who rode near his 
side. 

" The sky is clear, Colonel, — to-night we 
sleep in Fort Duquesne !" 



LEGEND EIGHTH. 

THE BATTLE OF MONONGAHELA. 



" General," said young Washington, with an 
earnestness in his tone that would have 
penetrated any heart, not stultified by self- 
conceit, " with twelve men, I will traverse 
yonder thickets, and defend our army from a 
fatal surprise." 

The young soldier as he spoke bent over 
the neck of his bay steed, and his pale face, 
shadowed in the forehead by his hat, was 
touched in the cheeks by the noon-day sun. 

Braddock smiled — 

And at the moment, a column of smoke, rose 
from the hill-side into the sky — there was a 
sound as of one column of armed men recoil- 
ing on another — from every side pealed the 
rifle-shot mingled with that war-cry which 
makes the blood sun cold even in a veteran's 
veins. 

The smile passed from Braddock's face. 

Casting his gaze toward the hill-top, he 
beheld his first division half lost to view amid 
clouds and flame. He saw a sheeted blaze 
pouring from the shadows of the trees. He 
heard the cry which pealed from the wood, 
from the ravine — echoing, thrilling, from 
every side into the calm Heaven. 

" The Indians and the French are upon us !" 
he cried, turning his flushed face toward young 
Washington. 

At the same moment, the white plume which 
crowned his chapeau was borne away by a 
rifle shot. 

" General," cried Washington, "there is but 
one way to save our army from defeat and 
massacre. Let our men fight under shelter, 
and then every rock will be a fort, every tree 
a castle — " 

With a sneer on his colorless lip, the 
General turned away. 



" That is not the way for an Englishman to 
fight," he said. 

But as he spoke, the first division came 
rushing in wild disorder from the top of the 
hill — soon its panic-stricken soldiers com- 
municated their panic to the second — and from 
the second to the third, like lightning from one 
cloud to another, that panic leapt, until amid 
the clouds which rushed over the scene, nothing 
was seen but broken ranks, falling back before 
a deadly fire. 

How th& voice of the battle awoke the 
wilderness, and filled every nook. of the forest 
with ihe groans of dying men ! Dying afar 
from country and from home, not in open fight, 
or by a foe, whose eyes flashed in their faces as 
his arm fell in the death-blow, but by the hand 
of an enemy who crouched in the thicket, and 
murdered securely from the shadow of a rock. 

Behold the scene. This band of twelve 
hundred men, scattered over the hill-side, are 
shut in by a wall of fire. They advance and 
they are dead. They retreat, and their path 
is choked by corpses, which a moment since 
were living men. They move to his side, and 
death flashes upon them from yonder log On 
to the other, and they are mown to pieces by 
the fire from those collosal oaks. 

And Braddock, hoarse with shouting and 
blind with rage, sends the gallant men of his 
staff whirling over the field. 

"Let them form in regular order. Let them 
fight like Englishmen, and the day is ours." 

And to his side there comes a wounded 
horse, bearing the young Virginian, whose 
hunting shirt, is torn into ribbons by the bul- 
lets of the foe. 

"General," he cries, "it is not yet too late. 
Let our men fight the enemy in their own way 

C41) 



42 WASHINGTON 

— let them fight behind cover — and the day is 
ours." 

The words have not passed his lips, when 
his horse reels under him, and sprinkles the 
sod with blood. Then young Washington 
starting from his dying horse, springs to his 
feet, and awaits the answer of Brad dock, his 
pale face now flushing fast with the fever of 
battle. 

An oath escapes the lips of the Briton. 

" No, sir. The men shall fight as English- 
men or not at all !" he shouts, and dashes to 
another part of the field. 

Half-way down the hill-side, encircled by 
the sudden clouds of battle, the young Virgin- 
ian stood, one foot resting upon the flank of 
his dying steed, whose glassy eye was once 
upturned toward his master's face, and then 
cold and dark forever. 

His cheek was no longer pale — flushed 
with the impulse of the fight, it gave a deeper 
light to his eye, while his brow grew radiant 
with a sombre delight. 

It was in this moment, when the fire of the 
irresistible foe, hurled panic and death into the 
"exact'' order of the British army, that young 
Washington lingered for a moment near his | 
dead steed, and took in with an eager glance 
the confused details of the scene. 

Clouds of white smoke, tinged here and 
there with a midnight fold, rolled over the hill- 
side, and hung over the river, reaching from 
forest to forest, above the waters, like a bridge 
of death. 

Among these clouds, through the intervals 
made by the musquet flash or rifle blaze, the 
British host, no longer joined in compact 
lines, but broken into confused crowds, was 
visible. From the hill-top and from the ra- 
vines on either hand; nay, from every log and 
tree streamed the incessant blaze which strewed 
the sod with dead and dying. And the calm 
sky was choked by battle cloud — the awful 
stillness of the virgin forest was succeeded by 
the howl of demoniac carnage. 

This was the scene which Washington be- 
hold as resting one foot upon the flank of his 
dead horse, he cast a hurried glance around 
aim. 

Braddock was there — upon his horse, which 
panted and reared among heaps of dead — his 
voice came noarsely down the hill as he en- 



AND HIS MEN. 

deavored to rally his men into parade order, 
and force them to fight this battle in " regular" 
style. 

Washington groaned in anguish. He had 
warned the General of the ambush — had be- 
sought him, almost with tears, to move forward 
with caution — and now, his warnings disre- 
garded, his prayers met with scorn, he beheld 
twelve hundred men at the mercy of a hidden 
foe. 

" The day is not yet lost !" he cried, as a 
hope brightened over his face. 

" George !" said a gruff voice, and a hard 
hand was laid upon his own. 

The giant hunter,* clad in his costume of 
skins, half concealed by a hunting shirt, stood 
before him. The blood trickled over his sun- 
burnt cheek, but he grasped his good rifle in 
one hand, while the other held the rein of a 
frightened and riderless horse. 

"George," said the hunter, with gruff fami- 
liarity, " thou'rt the only man can save us to- 
day. Here's a horse, boy — mount him, and 
tell that fool of a Britisher, that we don't 
fight French and Ingins in this 'ere style. Tell 
him that we can fight 'em in their own way, 
but it is not our fashion to walk up to death 
and swallow it, in this fool-hardy manner." 

Not a word more was spoken. With a 
bound Washington sprang into the saddle — you 
may see his form, yonder amid the mists of 
battle — you may trace the fiery circles of his 
sword above the lurid clouds. 

The hunter gazed after him with a grim 
smile, and then plunged into the smoke. 

Near the top of the hill, his face purpled by 
rage, Braddock mounted on a fresh horse — 
two had fallen under him — was hurrying his 
aids over the field, while the bullets whistled 
like hail over his head, and about the long mane 
of his war steed. 

" General !" cried Washington, as he dashed 
up to the side of the Briton — "once more let 
me beseech you — change the order of this 
conflict. It is folly, it is worse than folly, to 
attempt to combat a hidden enemy in this style. 
Let the Provincials, at least, fight behind 
cover" 

In the very earnestness of the very moment 
he leaned forward, his hunting shirt falling 



* See Legend Seventh. 



THE BATTLE OF 

back over his chest, and disclosing his blue 
uniform. And at the very instant a button was 
severed from his breast by a rifle ball. 

Braddock did not even listen to the young- 
Virginian. Maddened by the terrible havoc 
going on every hand — inflated by the peculiar 
self-complacency which possesses mere 
military men, over all the world, he bade his 
aid-de-camp join with him in the attempt to 
rally the panic-stricken troops, to display them 
once more in regular lines, and march them 
" exactly" to death, according to the tactics of 
the regular army. 

But at the moment a scene occurred which 
paled even Braddock's cheek. 

A band of Virginians, some eighty men in 
all, fought their way up the hill-side, turned a 
fallen tree, whose huge trunk, some five feet in 
diameter, offered a convenient breast-work. 
From the thicket, beyond that tree, streamed 
the blaze of Indian rifles, and yet those men, 
led on by their Captain, the brave Waggoner, 
fought steadily up the hill-side, their blue hunt- 
ing frocks seen distinctly amid the clouds which 
curled about the summit. 

Their way is littered with dead ; they can- 
not advance but the corpse of a Briton, clad in 
scarlet, glares in their faces with stony eyes. 

Braddock saw them on their fearful way — 
Washington, too, reining his brown steed near 
the General's side, held his breath as he 
marked each step of their progress. 

The short sword of Waggoner gleaming in 
their van — the heroic Virginians dashed 
onward, and, leaving three of their number in 
their path, they reach thp fallen tree — they 
are dealing death among the foemen hidden by 
yonder thicket, when — 

Braddock's chpek grew livid — Washington 
uttered a cry of despair ! 

— - When they are cut down, hewn into 
fragments, crushed into one mangled heap of 
living men, entangled among dead and dying. 
Crushed not by a fire from their front, but by 
a fire from the rear, mangled not by bullets of 
the foe, but by the rifles of their comrades — 
their brothers. 

Captain Waggoner rose up from among the 
heaps of dead, and shook his bloody knife in 
the air, in witness of the fatal mismanagement 
which had butchered thirty out of his eighty 
men. 



MONONGAHELA. 43 

Washington saw that sword quivering and 
gleaming from the hill-top, and with a cold 
sneer on his face, turned to the regular general. 

" You see, General," he said, " those of our 
men who mean to fight, are massacred by your 
regular soldiers !" 

Ere Braddock could reply, his horse sunk 
beneath him, pierced in the heart by a rifle 
bullet. He rises from the dying steed — he 
shouts for a fresh horse — he plunges madly 
to and fro in the thickest of the battle. Does 
he learn wisdom by experience, does he bid 
his men to maintain the fight behind the trunks 
of these colossal trees ? No — no ! Determined 
to enforce " regular tactics" and " correct 
discipline" to the last moment, he speeds 
wildly among his broken columns, never for a 
moment pausing in his career, save to insult 
some provincial band, who are holding battle 
from the shelter of fallen trees. 

There was a slender youth, clad in the 
hunting frock, who loaded his rifle behind a 
poplar tree which towered alone in the centre 
of the field. His young breast protected by 
this tree, he loaded in silence without even a 
battle shout, and then, with lips compressed 
and flashing eye, took his deadly aim, and saw 
his distant foeman reel into death. 

It was Braddock who marked this youth, 
and reined his horse near the tree, pulling the 
rein so suddenly, that the wild steed fell back 
on his haunches. 

" Coward !" cried he, turning his flushed 
face towards the boy, " you dare not fight like 
a man, but must skulk behind the shelter of a 



He leans over the neck of his steed ; his 
sword descends — the boy sinks on his knees, 
and turns his disfigured face toward the British 
General. 

But Braddock was gone again. Urging his 
horse over the dying and the dead, he hurries 
to another part of the field, beholding every- 
where the same spectacle — broken crowds of 
scarlet-coated soldiers, firing upon each other 
while the hidden foe hems them on every hand, 
and mows them incessantly into the great 
harvest of death. 

Meanwhile, the boy by the solitary poplar, 
beaten to the earth by Braddock's sword, 
wipes the blood from his eyes, and looks 
around with a vague glance. His senses are 



44 WASHINGTON 

whirling in delirium ; a word of home comes 
to his white lip, mingled with the syllables of 
a sister's name. 

But there is a giant form bending over him ; 
a sunburnt face, streaked with blood, is gazing 
into his own with dilating eyes. It is the 
hunter, clad in a hunting shirt, spotted with 
blood, but with his good rifle in his brawny 
arm. 

His own arm becomes nerveless, his harsh 
voice faint and broken, as he bends over the 
bleeding boy. 

"Arthur," he says, smoothing the brown 
locks of the boy aside from his bloody fore- 
head — " who has done this ? Tell me, child 
— tell me ;" — an oath escaped from between 
his set teeth — " and if he's hidden behind a 
hundred yards of French and Ingins I'll pay 
him for it, afore this day's an hour older !" 

The boy passed one hand over his eyes, and 
wiped the blood away. 

" Brother," he faintly said, and a smile of 
recognition passed his pale face — " It was a 
sword * * * * In Braddock's hand. * 
*. * * You see, he did not like it, because 
I fought behind a tree." 

The stem backwoodsman rose and clutched 
his rifle. The cords of his bared neck began 
to swell ; a hoarse cry came from his heaving 
chest. 

And then, while his young brother lay 
bleeding at the foot of the poplar tree, the sun- 
burnt man, with the great tears starting over 
his tawny cheeks, began to load his rifle in 
silence, but with much prudence and care. 

"That ball is for him, Arthur — I shan't 
fire this rifle until his heart lies afore it, and 
that's a sartin thing !" 

With these words he turned away, measur- 
ing the sod with immense strides. He had 
not gone ten paces, when a sudden thought 
came over him. 

" The boy will die," he muttered, and j 
turned away. 

He drew near, but no voice greeted him this 
time with the word "brother." Where he 
had left a wounded form, bathed on the brow 
with streaming blood, now was only a corpse, 
propped against the tree, the rifle fallen from 
its stiffened fingers, and the cold lips parting in 
a smile. 

There was a stain upon his breast, near the 



AND HTS MEN. 

heart — a stray bullet had completed the work 
begun by Braddock's sword. 

It would have moved your heart to see the 
rugged backwoodsman, gazing silently into the 
face of the dead boy. Few words he said, 
but they were spoken with a heaving heart and 
choking utterance. 

" Arthur, my child, you staid at home with 
the old folks in the settlements yonder, while 
your brother went out to seek his fortin' 
among b'ars and Ingins in the woods. A bold 
fellow I've been — many a rough fight I've 
had — but I don't want to see two days like 
this in a life time. This mornin', when I 
came to jine the army, I thought you was far 
away — safe at home — it's the first time I've 
seen your face for many a day. An' now 
they're waitin' for you, — father and mother, 
— and here you are, cut down like a dog, by 
Braddock's sword." 

A gleam of battle light reddened the pale 
features of the dead boy. 

The giant hunter turned away, grasping the 
rifle which embodied the fate of the army, the 
destiny of Braddock. He turned away, and 
soon was lost among the clouds — after a 
while we will behold him again. 

For three hours the work of massacre went 
on. Five horses were shot beneath the British 
General as he hurried madly over the field, but 
all his efforts were vain. His artillery and 
infantry, mingled at first in sad disorder, were 
soon mingled in one common havoc. For 
three hours the blood shed on the hill-side 
trickled down through the grass, and fell drop 
by drop into the Monongahela. For three 
hours that girdle of flame shut in the doomed 
army, and when the third hour came, and the 
sun, as if weary of slaughter, veiled his beams 
in a lurid cloud, seven hundred men were 
stretched upon the sod. 

Seven hundred dead and dying, out of an 
army of twelve hundred men, slain in a com- 
bat of three hours, by a hidden foe ! 

Sixty officers, brave and gallant; the flower 
of Virginian chivalry and the pride of the reg- 
ular army, were stretched among the slain. 

And as the work of carnage goes on, where 
is Washington, the youth of twenty-three^ 
whose grey eye, already fires with precocious 
experience? 

Many and thrilling are the traditions which 



THE BATTLE OF MONONGAHELA. 



43 



tne old soldiers of the field — the few survi- 
vors of its carnage — have handed from the 
history of their hearts down to our day. 

Mounted on a dark bay he had crossed the 
river, his pale cheek touched by a solitary 
flush, but his grey eyes full of indefinable fore- 
boding. 

The bay horse had fallen dead beneath him 
in the dawn of the fight. 

Next, his commanding form, roused into all 
its vigor by the frenzy of battle, was borne 
over the field by a generous roan horse, whose 
eye dilated wtth the fury of the hour. 

And the generous roan had fallen, too, un- 
der his young rider, howling his last war cry as 
his broken limbs crumbled beneath him. 

But now, mounted upon a grey horse, his 
forehead bared to the battle flash, and his uni- 
form riddled by bullet-holes, Washington is 
seen where the fire of the enemy illumines the 
verge of the ravine ; where the Indian yell 
mocks the anguish of the dying — where the 
hill-top gleams like a funeral pyre, with bayo- 
nets and rifle blaze. 

Now confronting this havoc-stricken band 
of regulars, hurling his horse before them, and 
daring them to fly the field ; now rallying 
yonder group of Continentals, and leading 
them to the hopeless charge ; at one time, be- 
side the infuriated Braddock, listening to his 
mad commands, at another, whirling like an 
arrow over the hill side, into the very vortex 
of battle. 

It was thus that the grey horse became 
known to friend and foe* ; it was amid the corses 
of Braddock's field beside the waters of the 
Monongahela, that the name of Washington 
was first stamped upon the hearts of his coun- 
trymen, to ripen into full glory upon a broader 
and holier field. 

And wherever the young Virginian went, 
whether skirting the borders of the wood, or 
riding in the centre of the fight, there was an 
eye that followed his career ; there was a rifle 
levelled at his breast. 

So, Braddock, wherever he rode, saw 
through the mists of the scene, an eye watch- 
ing his progress, a rifle levelled at his heart. 

There was this difference between the two. 
It was an Indian who tracked the steps of 
Washington, and hung like a red image of 
death in his path. Three times he had fired 



— he was the most fatal marksman in all nis 
tribe — and yet his balls had glanced from the ^ 
breast of Washington, like icicles from the 
granite rock. 

It was a gaunt form, almost gigantic in sta- 
ture, that followed Braddock through the mazes 
of the scene. A backwoodsman, with a torn 
hunting frock, fluttering over his garment of 
skins. But never once had he fired. Many 
times had the rifle rose, and the aim been ta- 
ken, but there was no report from the deadly 
tube. He seemed, this unknown man, to de- 
lay his fire, as an epicure pauses long, before 
he touches the richest viand of his feast. 

At last there come a moment — the bloodi- 
est and the darkest of all — near the close of 
the third hour, when Washington reined his 
grey horse near Braddock's side. It was near 
the summit of the hill — they were encircled 
by corpses ; wherever their eyes turned was 
the sight of a dying man, writhing in the last 
agony, or a dead man's face, upturned to the 
dark battle cloud. 

Braddock's jet black horse — it was the 
sixth he had bestrode on this fatal day — hung 
his head over the neck of Washington's grey 
steed, as the riders conversed in hurried and 
subdued tones. 

Braddock's gay uniform was sadly disfig- 
ured; his tace, livid under the eyes, was 
stamped with a sullen despair. 

Washington's visage, boldly marked against 
the dark cloud — the forehead bare and the 
eye gleaming — was radiant with a glorious 
hope. 

"General, I can save the wreck of our force," 
he said, in a pleading tone. "Permit me to 
do it." 

At this moment, from a log, some few paces 
behind the back of Washington, rose the im- 
age of a gaunt backwoodsman, with levelled 
rifle, and sunburnt face, compressed by a 
deadly resolve. 

And from a rock, fifty yards from the back 
of Braddock, an Indian started into view, his 
rifle poised — his red plume waving over his 
visage — the death aim taken, and the finger 
on the trigger. 

Does the backwoodsman level his rifle at 
the heart of Washington ? 

Does the Indian chief mean to slay the Gen- 
eral in the gay scarlet uniform ? 



4(3 WASHINGTON 

No — no! Ten times the Indian has fired 
at the heart of Washington ; four bullets have 
touched but not wounded him ; six have left 
him scatheless. If the eleventh does not kill, 
the Indian will fire no more, assured that the 
Great Spirit panoplies the youth of twenty- 
three years. 

And as for the Backwoodsman, this is his 
first and last fire at the heart of Braddock. As 
he loaded that rifle near the body of the dead 
brother — he feels that its bullet is winged by 
death. 

And thus, the Indian behind Braddock, the 
Backwoodsman at the back of Washington, 
each take their fatal aim in the last hour of the 
fatal fight. 

" Permit me, General," said the tremulous 
voice of Washington, " permit me to save the 
the wreck of our gallant band ?" 

There was a lull in the storm. Suddenly, 
through the momentary stillness, two separate 
sounds, from opposite sides, pealed on the air 
like echo answering echo. Two rifle bails, 
winged by death, hissed on their way. 

One tore a fragment from the breast of 
Washington's coat, but left the young hero 
scatheless. 

Braddock smiled as he marked the trace cf 



AND HIS MEN. 

I the bullet — and then fell on the neck of his 
horse with a low groan. A bullet had 
pierced his right arm, and buried itself in his 
heart. 

And the Indian chief fled into the thicket, 
telling his red brothers how the Great Spirit 
guarded the breast of the young man, mounted 
on the grey horse — how steel could not 
. wound, nor bullet harm him — his heart was 
as granite, his arm as iron, and his name des- 
tined for great deeds in some future day. 

And the gaunt hunter went slowly to the 
foot of the poplar tree ; and bent near the dead 
boy, and wiped the blood, still warm, from his 
cold features, saying, amid his anguish, two 
simple words — 

"My Brother !" 

And the young Virginian, mounted on the 
grey steed, rallied the wreck of the gallant 
army, and — while artillery and baggage were 
left, with the corpses of the slain, to the foe — 
saw them cross once more the river, whose 
waves now blushed as if in very shame for 
the carnage, and a rude tumbril rolled onward, 
bearing amid the broken columns the mangled 
form of Braddock, who, in the delirium of his 
wounds, kept ever repeating a single name — • 
" Washington." 



LEGEND NINTH. 

WASHINGTON IN LOVE. 



There is a Legend which should never be 
told, save in the calm of the summer twilight, 
when the drops of the shower yet sparkle on 
the leaves, and the setting sun shines out from 
the west, while the east displays a rainbow on 
its clouds. Then when the glory of the rainbow, 
set upon the eastern cloud, seems to call to 
the declining sun, shining in great splendor, 
from the clouds that hang above his rays — 
when there are drops like diamonds on every leaf 
— when the air is fragrance — and one heaven- 
like glimpse of sunset and rainbow, looks in 
upon the world, ere the storm and blackness of 
night comes over us — then let us tell a strange 
Legend of the wild wood, in the days of old. 

And yet I am afraid to tell this Legend. 
It has lingered so long about my heart — been 
in my dreams so Long — come to me like mu- 
sic that bursts over still waters through mid- 
night stillness — that I am loth to write it down 
in words. Afraid that my pen cannot do jus- 
tice to its simple pathos; that its joy and its 
tears, will find in my words no voice, worthy 
of their intensity and love. 

One summer evening when the sun was low, 
an old man sat in front of his cabin door. 

That cabin stood in a hollow or glen, which 
extended .through the virgin forest from north 
to south, with a glimpse of blue sky at either 
extremity. 

It was a one-storied fabric, built of huge 
logs, and hidden under the boughs of the great 
trees. The roof, the timbers, everything but 
the rugged door, was hidden by boughs and 
vines. So that rugged door looked not so 
much like the entrance of a cabin, as a mass 
of rough boards, set in branches and leaves. 

Some gleams of fading sunlight came from 
the sky above — from either extremity of the 



glen — and spread a pool of light before the 
old man's door. 

Shut out from the world, three hundred 
miles at least from white civilization, hidden in 
this nook of the Alleghanies, this old man sat 
on the side of a fallen log, and with light play- 
ing around him — while the other part of the 
glen was in shadow — he seemed thinking of 
other days, of his youth, or of the graves of his 
People. 

It is no image of the imagination that I 
would paint to you. An actual old man, en- 
during, suffering — dying by inches — in the 
awful solitude of the forest, in the year 1754. 

A tall frame, gaunt and grim with age, and 
looking like a skeleton, encased in hunting 
shirt, leggins, and mocassins. A withered 
face, browned by wind and sun, with the 
sinews of the bared throat as prominent as 
cords, and the wrinkled forehead contrasted with 
scanty flakes of snow-white hair. His limbs 
crossed, his large hands laid on his knees, the 
old man gazes into the shadows of the forest, 
and seems like the Pilgrim of the old story, 
who sat him down one day, and waited pa- 
tiently until Death came by. 

Upon the log which supports the old man, 
we behold a rifle, with stock of dark ma- 
hogany, and mountings of silver. It is much 
worn, indeed it has seen forty years of service. 

For this aged man, now sitting alone in the 
forest, presents to us a stern embodiment of 
that wondrous race of men, who penetrated 
the great forest of Pennsylvania, at least one 
hundred years in advance of their race, and 
made the Indian mode of life their own, 
gathering food with their rifles, and sometimes 
feeling a great consciousness of God's Presence, 
even in the midnight of the wilderness. 



4g WASHINGTON 

But the hunter is old now, very old ; ninety 
years are upon him with their snows. 

The hand that once was strong, is now 
weak as any child's. The foot that once 
scaled the mountain, and trod without fear, the 
verge of dizzy chasms, now trembles in the 
little journey from the log to the cabin door. 

And he will die alone in the wilderness ! 

From no wilderness of Red Brick, will his 
soul escape to his God. But gloriously from 
the dead solitudes of the wilderness, that soul 
will leave the shattered frame — cold and stiff 
upon the log — and wing its way through the 
virgin air to Eternity. 

"Ninety years!" the old man murmurs — 
and is still again. It is a long time to contem- 
plate ; longer to feel like ice in your veins, 
and winter in your soul. 

And from the cabin-door, there steals on tip- 
toe a form, which by its very contrast, made 
the old age of the Hunter more deeply vener- 
able. 

A young girl, clad in a coarse skirt which 
reaches to the knee, her limbs covered with 
leggings, her feet with mocassins. 

And yet you never saw a form at once so 
lithe and so blooming in its outlines — you 
never heard a step so gentle and yet so active 
^you never saw a brown face like hers, 
illumined by so pure a soul, or' shadowed by 
chesnut hair so rich and flowing ! 

She came behind the old man gently, and 
laid her hands upon his white hairs, and 
placed her smooth cheek against his withered 
face. 

It was like an embodied dream. 

The withered cheek beside the clear brown 
face of youth, the eyes dim with age, con- 
trasted with eyes large, black and brilliant ; 
while hair telling of ninety winters swept 
the chesnut curls which scarcely indicated 
nineteen summers. 

It was a touching sight — to see the old man 
clasp her hands within his own, while his 
uplifted eyes, brightened into life again, as he 
perused the wild beauty of her face. 

And as the evening hour deepened into 
night, they conversed together, the aged man, 
and the young maiden. Talked low and long 
of that strange life in the forest — of the books 
which cheered the lonely hours of the winter's 
night — of one Book which opened a path, even 



AND HIS MEN. 

through the silence of eternal solitudes, from 
the lone heart to its God. Of the Hunters, 
rude men of the forest, who often came to the 
cabin door with stores of corn and venison — = 
and now and then a garment or some luxury 
of civilized life — for the old Hunter and his 
grand-child, Marion. 

"But grandfather, you have often promised 
to tell me of my father and mother," said the 
girl resting her hands upon his white hairs — 
and of the Home in which they dwelt, far 
away from the woods — near cities and gar- 
dens, such as we see described in books. 1 
am but young, grandfather, — but you have 
passed many long years in the forest. Tell 
me, I beseech you, the story of your life, and 
of my own." 

A shadow fell upon the old Hunter's face. 

" Lo, Marion," he said abruptly — " there 
are histories my child, which should never be 
told, save as confessions, made by white lips 
in the hour of death. Your father — your 
mother!" he shuddered, and shrunk away 
from her hands and cast his eyes to the sod. 

The girl stood silent and trembling, her 
bosom swelling beneath its coarse vestment ; 
her large eyes full of light and tears. 

The sunshine tinting the mazes of her ches- 
nut hair, fell strong and vivid, upon his agitated 
face. 

" You thrust me from you" — said Marion 

— " This is not well, grandfather. In all the 
world I have no friend but you." 

He extended his withered hand. 

" Come hither" — his voice was tremulous 
and broken — '* sit by my side. Seventeen 
years ago, I came to this place, and bore you 
in my arms — a babe whose eyes had hardly 
seen one. year of life. I reared this cabin for 
you Marion — to you, and to your life, I de- 
voted what remained of mine own. By day I 
hunted among the hills, while you remained 
alone within Our cabin. And at night, beside 
our fire, we sat together — you learned to read 

— the great world of books was opened to 
your eyes. And before my sight you blossomed 
into life, until the old Hunter, would look into 
vout face at times, and wonder whether you 
were not an Angel, sent by God, to cheer the 
gloom of his cabin, and with your Presence 
lighten up the lone forest glen." 




4 



(40) 



WASHINGTON IN LOVE. 



51 



The old man paused, and wiped the mois- 
ture from his eyes. 

" Ask me of this — of your own history — 
of the blessing you have been to me, in my 
hours of pain — and I will speak freely. But 
rather wish me dead at your feet — rather pray 
that the lightning may strike these gray hairs 
— than to ask me to relate the History of the 
Past. The Past ! That awful shadow which 
rests upon my history, ere I brought you to 
the glen, seventeen years ago!" 

The old man rose abruptly, and with un- 
steady but hurried steps sought the c*bin door. 
He disappeared beneath its shadow. 

The girl remained near the fallen log, her 
finger placed upon her moist red lip, her eyes, 
burthened with tears, cast to the earth. 

And while her bosom swelled with vague 
thoughts — thoughts strange and mingled in 
their hues — at once oppressive and lightened 
by gleams of joy — she strayed absently over 
the sward, toward the northern extremity of the 
glen. 

A wondrous life had been hers. Reared in 
the lone forest, the Great World had come to 
her, only as the memories of a half-forgotten 
dream. 

She had heard of a place, half a day's jour- 
ney from the cabin, called Fort Duquesne ; 
once, with her grandfather, she had visited 
"a settlement" far away in the woods, and 
seen for the first time in her life, the face of a 
white woman. Oftentime the red man had 
paused at the cabin door, but not with a thought 
of harm, for the old Hunter Abraham, dwelling 
thus alone, with this beautiful child — was 
sacred in his eyes — protected by the Great 
Spirit, who sends good angels to guard withered 
Age and brown-haired Orphanage. 

Even the backwoodsman, who mingled the 
vices of civilization and the hardy virtues of 
savage life, respected the Home of the old 
man, and looked upon the beautiful Orphan as 
a sacred thing. 

Thoughts and memories, like these, glided 
into the mind of Marion, as she wandered over 
the sward, toward the northern extremity of 
the glen. 

At last, she started back with affright — for 
she advanced to the brow of a crag — one step 
farther — and she would have been dashed to 
pieces, in the abyss, which yawned below. 



That crag, terminating the glade, commanded 
a wide horizon to the north and west. 

A horizon of mountains, framing immense 
masses of forests, through whose depths of 
summer green, two winding rivers shone like 
liquid silver in the setting sun. 

Marion looked below and shuddered. From 
the chasm beneath great trees arose, but a 
hundred feet of granite intervenes between their 
summit and the summit of the rock. . 

To the west she looked, and the flush of 
sunset, tinged her brown cheeks and chesnut 
hair, with light and rapture. 

A blue canopy, with only one cloud — ana 
that was in the path of sunset, unfolding its 
white breast, to the gaze of the dying Day. 

But from afar — over the waste of woods, 
and near where the mingling rivers shone — 
came glimpses of a vision, which stirred the 
maiden's heart with awe and wonder. 

Glimpses of armed men, whose burnished 
weapons, shone in the sunlight, like fire-flies 
through the gloom of night. Armed men, in 
ranks and columns, marching under banners, 
with horsemen riding in their midst. Now 
she saw them slowly ascend a hill, which rose 
suddenly from the forest — soon they were lost 
to sight — but at length came into view again, 
dotting the slope of a wide meadow, with points 
of dazzling light. 

On the brow of the crag, clinging with one 
hand to a sapling, whose leaves swept her dark 
hair, while the other shrouded her eyes from 
the sun, the Maiden stood gazing with inde- 
finable wonder, on the march of the unknown 
army. 

Not until the sun went down, and darkness 
wrapt the landscape, and the chill mist, wan- 
dered a like ghostly form, through the glen, and 
before the cabin door, did the forest girl retreat 
from the verge of the crag. 

Within the cabin, a pine-torch, inserted in a 
crevice of the logs, above the hearth, flung a 
ruddy light. 

The cabin was but one spacious room, with 
two couches, of deer-skin, standing in opposite 
corners — walls of log — rudely constructed 
hearth — and floor as rude, sprinkled with pine 
branches and fragrant moss. 

Their evening meal was past, and a slight 
fire burned on the hearth, for the atmosphere 



52 WASHINGTON 

of the night — although it was a mid-summer 
night — was damp and chill. 

The old man was seated on his bench, lean- 
ing his elbows on his knees, and resting his 
cheeks in his hands ; his grand-child stood 
near a shelf, her lifted hand grasping a book, 
and her face turned over her shoulder, towards 
his motionless form. 

The light played in flashes over the moss- 
covered floor, and tinted with radiance the 
dark logs whieh formed the cabin floor. 

44 But when I die," said the old man, as if 
thinking aloud — 44 And there are not many- 
days left to me — when I die, what will be- 
come of — you ?" 

The girl was about to answer, when the 
door opened with a crash, and a harsh voice 
was heard — 

44 Why I'll take keer of her, old Abr'am. I 
promise you that ! I think o' settlin' in these 
clearin's somewhere, and I'd jist like to have 
a little woman o' that shape and complexion, 
fur my cabin. " 

The old man knew the voice ; the sound of 
its accents seemed to penetrate his blood. He 
started to his feet, and fell back again with a 
shudder. 

The arm of the girl lifted to reach the book, 
was palsied in the action — her face, turned 
over her shoulder,' grew deathly pale. 

Meanwhile the intruder advanced to the cen- 
tre of the floor, and stood in the glow of the 
hearth-side. 

Picture to yourself, a form six feet and more 
in height, with long limbs, lean bony arms, 
narrow shoulders and shrunken chest, and a 
thin scraggy neck, supporting a small head, 
covered with masses of red hair. A face with 
harshly moulded features, small eyes deep 
sunken, prominent nose and bulging brow. A 
costume made of fragments of military uniform, 
and backwoodsman's attire — a short green 
coat laced with gold, breeches of deer-skin, 
boots of dark leather, a belt, powder-horn, and 
spurs. One hand resting on a rifle, the other 
grasping the hilt of a hunting knife. 

Such was the intruder ; a man notorious 
among white and red men — among British 
and French, as a dead shot and a reckless 
bravo. In the course of a few years he had 
been seen fi ltIi t i n^f on all sides; now at the 
head of a band of Indians ; now in the ranks 



AND HIS MEN. 

of the Provincial soldiers ; and a year before, 
at the battle of the Great Meadows, he had 
been prominent among the French, who at- 
tacked the little band of young Washington. 

His real name, tradition tells us, was Michael 
Burke ; but the cognomen by which he was 
named among the Indians, effaced his proper 
designation. More in regard to his disposition 
and the color of his hair, than to any rule of 
natural philosophy — we presume — he was 
called simply — 

44 The Red Wolf !" 

And it was this title shrieking from the lips 
of the girl, and murmured by the old man, 
which elicited a grim smile from the bravo 
himself. 

As he stood gazing into the fire, old Abraham 
made a quick and stealthy sign to his grand- 
child. She saw and comprehended that brief 
gesture. It meant — 

44 Bring me my rifle !" 

The rifle stood beneath the shelves on which 
her books were placed. She seized it, was 
darting forward, when the Red Wolf wheeled 
suddenly round, and interposed his ungainly 
form, between the girl and her grandfather. 

44 Ra-a-ly it makes me laugh !" he cried, de- 
vouring the beauty of that young face, with a 
coarse stare — 44 Why the gal's a-goin' to bat- 
tle surely ! Which way my purty robin, with 
that shootin' iron ? You look so nice, and so 
bright about the eyes, that I think I must e'en 
have a kiss" — 

He advanced — the girl, frightened and pale, 
sank back, still grasping the rifle. 

44 Marion !" the old man cried — 44 Do not 
let go the rifle. Remember — there is neither 
mercy nor humanity about this man. Keep 
the rifle girl, and — " 

The old Hunter started to his feet, and 
stood behind the bravo, his features animated 
by an intensity of hatred and disgust. 

44 Oh, yer thar, are ye'!" — and the Red 
Wolf turned his head over his shoulder, and 
saluted the old man with a hideous grin — 64 1 
remember you last in the fight of the Great 
Meadows. I do. For I aimed at your top- 
knot no less than ten times. I did. In a 
minnit you and I — will have a talk together, 
but now — " 

He turned toward the girl, uttering an oath. 

The young maiden still leaned for support 



WASHINGTON IN LOVE . 



53 



against the wall, clutching the rifle with her 
hands, hut between the bravo and the girl, there 
stood a young man in the garb of a Provincial 
soldier, whose remarkable free and command- 
ing form, enchained at once the eyes of Marion 

— of Abraham — and "the Red Wolf." 

And this young man, standing so calmly, 
between the bravo and the girl, his chapeau in 
one hand, a pistol in the other, simply ex- 
claimed : 

" You had better retire Michael. The sol- 
diers are waiting for you at the foot of the glen. 
Go ! And tell them to push on without delay 

— I will join them on the road." 

And the Red Wolf, without a word, slunk 
to the cabin door and was gone. 

No words can picture the surprise mani- 
fested on the faces of the old man and his 
child. With a simultaneous glance they re- 
marked the costume and appearance of the 
stranger. 

He was clad in a blue coat, trimmed with 
silver lace ; he wore military boots, a belt, 
sword and pistols. His countenance, very 
pale, and marked by features at once regular, 
intellectual, and full of calm dignity, was 
lighted by large grey eyes. 

" Why Abr'am don't you know me. Forgot- 
ten so soon! Only a year ago you fought by 
my side, in the battle of the Meadows — have 
I passed from your memory already?" 

And the young man advanced and extended 
his hand — the old man grasped it warmly — 

" Colonel I" he ejaculated, " Surely God has 
6ent you hither !" 

" I am on my way to join the main body of 
the army under Braddock. You know our 
destination — Fort Duquesne ! Two weeks 
ago I was left with the rear, prostrated by a 
fever, from which I am only half recovered. 
A few moments since passing near your cabin, 
I was attracted by the sound of voices ; I tied 
my horse before the door, and to my astonish- 
ment found the < Red Wolf ' here — " 

" But will he not return ?" gasped the old 
man — " Or plan some act of treachery — " 

" No danger, Abr'am," returned the young 
man with a smile — " He is true to the side 
that pays best. Last year he was French — 
they paid best. Now he is retained by our 
General, as Guide, Spy, and so forth. He 
leads our rear division through the woods. 



He will be faithful so long as there is a purse 
before him, and a loaded pistol at his tem- 
ple." 

A harsh sound was heard — the young man 
turned, and for the first time seemed conscious 
of the presence of the forest girl. The rifle 
had fallen from her grasp. She leaned for 
support against the wall, her arms folded, and 
her cheek pale and red by turns. 

" My grand-child !" said the old man, and 
he repeated the name of the young officer. 
, As the girl advanced, and took the proffered 
hand of the Colonel, and in her simple way 
bade him welcome to that forest home, he gazed 
upon her face — into her eyes — with a long 
and absent glance. A glance which mingled 
admiration and reverence. Admiration for a 
face and form so beautiful, reverence for a soul 
so chaste and pure, as that which lighted her 
large eyes. 

And the girl gazed without shame upon the 
noble form and handsome face of the young 
officer, and when she spoke, her voice was 
low, musical, and full of delicate intonations, 
her language the speech of a pure and educated 
woman. 

For a while the young man gazed in her 
face — long, intently — while the thought half 
escaped his lips — 

"So beautiful, and in this forest, by the 
hearth of a dying old man !" 

His reverie was broken by the old man's 
voice — 

" Colonel you will stay with us to-night. 
You are not yet sufficiently strong to bear the 
fatigues of the march. You will remain — 
will you not, and pursue your way to- 
morrow ?" 

The young man gazed around the cabin 
with a smile — 

" I am afraid the person of a rude soldier 
like myself, might inconvenience you. Thanks 
friend Abr'am for your kind offer, but I must 
be on my way to-night. There will be a 
battle before many days, and I would not, for 
any consideration, be absent from its danger 
and glory." 

And while he spoke to the old man, his 
eyes were fixed upon the girl, his heart pos- 
sessed by an overwhelming wonder — 

" This beautiful maiden, dwelling in the 
wild forest, alone with a dving old man ! 



WASHINGTON 

There is a mystery here. Last year I saw him 
at the battle ; ah ! I remember — he spoke of 
a grand-child then, who awaited his return 
home. And when he dies, she will be left 
alone ! An Orphan — young — friendless — 
cast upon the mercy of the world !" 

This Thought did not rise to his lips, but it 
absorbed his soul. The light of the torch dis- 
closed a sight by no means without interest or 
beauty. 

These young forms, the one embodying all 
that is pure in maidenhood — the other, the 
courage and thought of young manhood — 
while the old man, with withered frame and 
white hairs, looked like an image of old Time, 
gazing upon Youth and Hope. 

" In an hour," said the Colonel, " I must be 
on my way — " 

The old Hunter swept aside the hide of a 
buffalo, which hung along one side of the 
cabin. An aperture like a doorway was dis- 
closed. Taking the pine knot in his hand, 
Abraham exclaimed — 

" Come hither, my friend. Let me converse 
with you alone." 

And followed by the young Colonel, he lead 
the way through the passage, into a large 
chamber, with high walls and lofty ceiling. 
The floor, the walls, the ceiling, were white as 
Parian marble. And as the' old man stood be- 
neath the lofty arch, and raised the glaring 
torch, its light fell upon the most beautiful 
flowers and fruit — all fashioned out of stone 
by the hand of nature — looking "like the 
ghosts of dead lilies and roses. 

The young officer stood motionless and 
wonder-stricken. 

44 Do not wonder," said old Abraham — 
"Our cabin is built on the side of a hill, and 
before the mouth of the Great Cavern, which 
pierces the womb of the mountain. Colonel 
I have brought you here, so that you may 
listen to the words of a dying man." 

There was a solemnity, a sadness, in the old 
man's tone, which pierced the heart. 

" I will listen," murmured the Colonel. 

" In a few days — perchance — in a few 
hours, I will be dead. To you I will confide 
a secret which I never entrusted to living mam 
Listen to a fatal Revelation — " 

And as the young officer sank upon a seat 
of stone, with that solemn Chapel of Nature 



AND HIS MEN. 

all around him, the old man's voice broke the 
stillness, and awoke the echoes of the place. 



For an hour, Marion, seated near the fire, 
awaited the re-appearance of Abraham and the 
young stranger. We will not picture her 
thoughts, but her large bright eye was forming 
air-castles among the coals which glared on the 
hearth ; her bosom rose and fell ; maybe a 
vision of the old man, dead, and his grand- 
child alone in the world, passed over her soul. 

And even amid her waking dreams, she 
heard the tones of the old man, breaking low 
and murmuring from the Cavern Chapel. 

The hour passed, the old man and the 
Colonel came forth from the Cavern Chapel, 
and Marion, looking up, saw that the face of 
the young man was very pale — that there 
were tears in his eyes. 

" Good night, my friends — " his voice was 
hurried and broken — " Abraham I have pro- 
mised, and will obey. When the Battle is 
over — if God spares my life — I will come 
this way on my return home, and attend to 
your last request." 

He took the hand of Marion — pressed it 
warmly — gazed upon her with a look which 
filled her with wonder — then grasped the 
hand of the old Hunter, and passed rapidly to 
the door. 

But even on the threshold he staggered and 
fell. 

It is no fiction that we are writing ; weak- 
ened by disease, worn down by fatigue — every 
faculty of his soul roused into action by the 
Revelation of the old man — the strength of 
the young soldier gave way at last, and like a 
dead man he fell to the floor. 

When they raised him from the floor, the 
forest girl and the old man together, he was 
chilled and fevered by turns ; his eye un- 
naturally bright and vacant, his cheek now 
pale as a shroud, and now fired as with a 
living flame. 

And all the night long, extended upon the 
old man's couch, he struggled with the mad- 
ness of fever, now telling them to bring his 
horse, so that he might ride to battle — now 
starting up with livid lips and glaring eyes, 
and shouting forth the words of the battle 
charge — and sinking at last into a half dreamy 



WASHINGTON IN LOVE. 



55 



slumber, with the name of " Marion !" on his 
lips. 

And sometimes the young girl, watching by 
his couch — cooling his fevered brow with her 
hand — shuddered as she heard the words of 
the old man's "Revelation" on the tongue of 
the delirious soldier. 

Morning came ; still the sick man was 
racked by pain and tortured by delirium. 
And while the old man prayed by his bed, the 
young girl wandered forth and gathered certain 
plants, commended by the rude Indian's lore, 
and prepared a potion, which gave sleep — 
oblivion — to the young Virginian. 

The day wore slowly away, and the horse 
of the soldier, tied to a tree and fed by the old 
man, neighed wildly, as if to arouse his mas- 
ter, and call him from his bed the scenes of 
the battle. 

Towards evening the sick man unclosed his 
eyes. Was it a Dream ? — the beautiful form 
that hovered near his bed ? A glimpse of sun- 
light stole through the opened door, and 
illumined the beautiful face of the Watcher — 
the sad, tender eyes, centred upon the pale 
brow of the soldier — the young face, bloom- 
ing with youth, and shadowed by luxuriant 
chesnut hair. 

For a long while the sick man did not speak. 
He feared to break the spell which held the 
beautiful Dream so near his bedside. 

At last endeavouring to recall his wandering 
thoughts, he asked — 

" How long have I been ill ?" 

The maiden started at the sound of his 
voice — 

" Since last night," she answered, remark- 
ing with undisguised joy, the healthy bright- 
ness of the speaker's eye. 

" It is then the Eighth of July — " he cried, 
with an accent of the deepest regret — "And I 
am here, when the army are winning laurels. 
Ah ! the Spy has left my soldiers in ignorance 
of my visit to this place ; they have gone on 
without me — they are now with Braddock. 
Abr'am my friend, I must away !" 

The old man answered his call ; while the 
girl stood apart, they conversed together. 

He rose, and although still weak, discovered 
that he was strong enough to mount his horse. 
He hastily resumed his coat, his sword and 
pistols, and stood ready to depart. 



" Farewell, Marion !" he said, extending his 
hand, " In my delirium I dreamed of a Good 
Angel, watching by my bed, and placing her 
hand upon my brow. It is a Dream no longer, 
for I am awake, and the Good Angel is still 
before me. Farewell ! When the Battle is 
over and Fort Duquesne won, I will see you 
again." 

He hastened to the door ; his horse, a dark 
bay, stood pawing the earth, beneath an oaken 
tree. 

He was in the saddle, his tall form, looking 
magnificent in the light of the setting sun ; his 
cheek still pale, but his eye bright and flashing. 

And the white-haired man stood near the 
stirrup, and at his back came the brown-haired 
girl, her large eyes raised to the warrior's face. 

" How far is it to the confluence of the 
the Monongahela and the Yohiogeny ? Brad- 
dock was to encamp there the night before he 
advanced upon Fort Duquesne." 

The old Hunter gave him directions, in re- 
lation to a short path through the wilderness — 

" You will reach it ere midnight, Colonel — 
God go with you," he said. 

The soldier ere he put spur to his steed, 
bent over the saddle, and fixing his gaze upon 
the face of the maiden, lifted her hand to his 
lips. 

" Farewell !" he said, and his steed bounded 
down the glen. The tall form of the rider rose 
between the gaze and the sky, flushed by the 
declining day. 

The maiden stood near the white-haired 
man, following that warrior form with her 
eyes, until the horse and the rider went to- 
gether into the shadows. 

"He will return when the battle is over," 
said Marion, like one awakening from a 
dream. 



That night, where the waters of the two 
rivers mingle, Braddock standing among the 
veterans of his host, pressed the young soldier 
by the hand, and joyfully exclaimed — 

" Welcome, Washington ! We are only 
fifteen miles from Fort Duquesne — we will 
rest there to-morrow !" 

To-morrow ! 

The battle was over. 

It was the Tenth of July, 1754, and seven 



58 WASHINGTON 

hundred corses, lay beneath the scalping knife, 
near the banks of the Monongahela. 

The French and Indians were holding festi- 
val among the dead ; the white man had his 
dance and his wine, and the red man, his har- 
vest of scalps — all among the dead of Brad- 
dock's field. 

And through the wilderness, over the very 
path where an army eager for battle, sure of 
victory, passed two days before, fled the dis- 
mayed wreck of twelve hundred warriors. 

A young soldier, stood on a crag, which 
overlooked a valley, and commanded a glimpse 
of the distant Monongahela. Two horses had 
fallen under him in the battle ; the third had 
died of fatigue in the terrible flight ; and the 
fourth — a white horse, worthy of his rider — 
was tied to a neighbouring tree. 

This soldier standing upon a crag, with arms 
folded, and lip pressed between his teeth, 
looked down — and saw the wreck of Brad- 
dock's army whirl beneath him, like a torrent 
suddenly undammed. 

Men without arms, men faint with wounds, 
men dying on the road, and stretching their 
hands in vain to their brothers — this was part 
of the sight which he saw. 

But the full terror, and confusion and panic 
of that flight, who can paint? 

And there borne in a tumbril, which was 
rudely jolted by the irregularities of the road, 
Braddock, the General, was slowly dying, de- 
voured at once by pain and remorse. 

His folly had sacrificed seven hundred men. 

No wonder that the brow of the young sol- 
dier darkened, no wonder that his bosom 
heaved, as he saw this miserable wreck of an 
army, whirl by, without purpose or aim, save 
to place mountains and rivers between its living 
and the fatal field on which its dead men lay. 

The blue uniform of the young soldier was 
marked by bullets and stained with blood. He 
had dared the fiercest peril, shared the darkest 
danger of the fight — his ears were filled even 
now with the shrieks of the dying. 

But in the fight the Face of a beautiful Girl 
had been near him — hovering now on the 
white mist — now smiling from the dark cloud. 
Her Memory had never forsaken his heart. 
And the story of her life, and of the life of her 
People — told by the old Hunter in the Cavern 
Chapel — had made its impression on his soul. 



AND HIS MEN. 

" When the Battle is over I will return !" 

And now he was returning — from no victo- 
rious field — from the Acaldema of the West — 
the glen in which the Hunter's cabin stood 
was not one hundred yards from the crng ; he 
had stolen from the retreating army for a brief 
hour; he would visit the cabin, and join his 
comrades near midnight. 

Leaving his horse by the tree, he hurried 
down the rock, he drew near the glen. 

How visions of the future rose before him in 
that hurried and lonely walk ! 

He was young ; he was brave ; but twenty- 
three years old, he had already won a name ot 
which the oldest warrior might be proud. 

And even from the desolation of the wilder- 
ness, he might gather a wild flower to bless 
with its fragrance, his heart, his home. 

This forest girl, Marion, dwelling in the 
wilderness — alone with her grandsire — a 
beautiful form, an angel face, linked with an 
angel soul ! Should she hold no influence on 
his life ? Where in all the world could he find 
a heart so true, a soul so pure and virginal ? 

Pardon the young man for these wild reve- 
ries — but he was young — the blood of early 
manhood was in his veins — the dreams ot 
youth still blossomed about his heart. 

" She is so beautiful," he thought, as he 
hurried along — " When the old man is dead, 
she will be left alone in the world. Can I 
leave her alone in the wilderness — can I de- 
sert purity and tenderness, like hers, in the 
hour of its loneliness ? Ah — even now, it 
may be, she weeps over the corse of her only 
friend — " 

With that thought he hurried on. 

Before him, a tall rock rose in the sun — on 
the other side of the rock lay the glen which 
embosomed the cabin — the Home of Marion, 
the forest girl. 

" Ah — they are standing at the door, the 
old man and the beautiful girl. I will behold 
them as I stand at the foot of the glen. They 
await me. They have looked for my coming 
all day long." 

Thoughts like these crowded upon him : 
his blood began to bound ; he looked toward 
the rock, and hastened onward. 

He reached the rock, passed it, and looked 
up the mountain glade ! 

It was bathed in sunbeams on one side ; 



WASHINGTON IN LOVE. 



59 



wrapt in shadow on the other ; he stood at its 
southern extremity, and from its northern ter- 
mination caught a glimpse of the smiling sky. 

But the cabin was not visible, for it stood 
among the trees, buried — all save the rugged 
door — by boughs and vines. Neither did he 
behold the image of the old man, with the 
dark-eyed girl standing near. 

A hundred paces lay between him and the 
cabin. 

Do not smile at his violent agitation ; do not 
chide him for his wild enthusiasm, for the 
Face of the girl is present with him now, as 
he hurries on — he hears her voice as he heard 
it in the delirium of fever — he resolves to 
bear her from this forest dell, and show the 
gay world what beautiful flowers are reared 
by God, even in the howling wilderness. 

He nears the cabin door — 

And you will remember that the young 
Virginian, in mere personal appearance, was 
worthy of the proudest woman's love. He was 
tall — well-proportioned — his face moulded 
not so much after the " classic style," but 
moulded — as a face should be, which is in- 
tended to express the manhood of a chivalric 
heart. 

He stands at last before the cabin door. 
Framed in flowers, the face of the young girl 
looks forth from the shadows — the withered 
hands of the old man are extended in the act 
of blessing him. No — No. 

The flowers before that door are withered. 
Blasted the flowers, the leaves — the very 
boughs are green no longer, but stripped of 
life, they fling their black limbs to the light. 

Where the cabin stood two days ago, now is 
only a pile of sightless and smoking embers ! 



It was a moment, such as do not occur to any 
man twice in a lifetime. 

He stood palsied, gazing upon the ruins and 
the blackness, looking for some traces of a 
living being — but unable to speak or move. 

" Marion !" he said in a broken voice. 

No answer came. A stillness like midnight 
was upon the place. 

The young soldier advanced — blackness 
and ashes, nothing but ruins wherever he 
turned. 

The mouth of the cavern was before him. 
The memory of the old man's Revelation came 
back at the sight ; he passed into the Chapel, 
and saw the sunshine stealing over those 
flowers and fruits of gold. But the Chapel 
was vacant — no sound or trace of humanity. 
It was like a tomb. 

Deeper into the cavern the young man 
passed — while he was gone, the night came 
down — and when he came forth, his face 
looked hollow, ghastly by the light of the rising 
moon. 

There was a single tress of brown hair 
wound about the clenched finger of his right 
hand. 

He hurried away, he mounted his horse, he 
joined the retreating army. But never from 
his lips passed a word concerning the fate of 
the old man or his child. 

But when America became a nation, there 
was in the cabinet of the President a sheet of 
time-worn paper, encircling a faded tress of 
hair, and bearing the superscription — " Ma- 
rion, July llth, 1754." That was the only 
record left on earth of the 

FIRST LOVE OF WASHINGTON. 



LEGEND TENTH. 

THE DEATH OF BRADDOCK. 



Braddock was dying. 

At the foot of a sycamore, whose white 
trunk glared like a ghost among the dark pines, 
was stretched all that remained of the brave 
General, who, five days before, had gone forth 
so proudly to gather laurels from the wild hills 
of Monongahela. 

His throat was bare ; his face pale as a 
shroud, and imbued with the apathy of despair, 
that neither hopes nor fears, was illumined by 
eyes that shone more brightly as the night of 
death came on. Sometimes he lifted his hand 
to the fatal wound near his heart ; sometimes 
he rolled his eyes around the faces of the dis- 
mayed spectators, and then, turning his own 
face to the shadows, he bit his nether lip, and 
longed for death. 

It was in a glen, whose northern side was 
bathed in sunlight; while the southern side 
was wrapt in shadow. 

A glen, strewn with broken arms and frag- 
ments- of artillery, with here and there the 
body of a wounded man. Crowds of panic- 
stricken men were scattered in groups over the 
sward, talking with each other in low tones, 
and speaking with livid lips the name of the 
fatal massacre — Monongahela. 

It was the fourth day of their flight from that 
terrible field. For four days and nights they 
had pursued their way, stricken with panic, 
and only nerved to exertion by the example 
of their leader, a Virginian youth of twenty- 
three; and as they bore the body of their 
wounded General, now in a rude tumbril, 
now on horseback, and last of all in their 
arms. 

But five days ago he had gone forth so 
proudly on his war horse, bearing the com- 
mission of his king ; and now, at the foot of a 



sycamore, alone in the dark wilderness, he was 
looking death in the face. 

While a group of soldiers, whose tattered 
uniforms and scarred faces bore traces of the 
fight, gathered near him, and watched his 
dying face, the valley or glen, only seven miles 
from Fort Necessity, became the theatre of a 
strange and varied scene. 

These soldiers had paused only for an hour, 
— paused that Braddock might die — but still 
possessed by the panic which had maddened 
them since the fatal day, they gave their bag- 
gage to the flames, buried their cannon in the 
bushes or underneath the sod, and stood pant- 
ing for the moment when they might resume 
their flight. 

Therefore the glen was dotted by groups of 
affrighted soldiers, who talked in low tones with 
each other ; therefore, through the shadows of 
the woods arose pyramids of flame ; therefore, 
no man thought of meat or drink or repose. 

The only thought was this — When Brad- 
dock is dead and buried we will fly as we 
have fled, these four days and nights. 

The day was fast declining. 

Only two men, in that dreary valley, seemed 
to keep firm hearts within their breasts : — 
The man who was dying at the foot of the 
sycamore. 

— The young Virginian who stood near 
him, watching his agony with fearful eyes. 

The General reached forth his clammy hand : 

"George," he said, and his voice was husky 
with death, " Let all but you retire. 1 would 
be alone with you before I die." 

Washington took the offered hand, and the 
pale spectators retired in silence, gazing from 
afar upon the white sycamore. 

For some moments there was silence, while 

(61) 



62 



WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 



the living and the dying gazed steadily into 
each other's faces. 

Braddock's face, pale with death ; clammy 
on the brow and glassy in the eyes — Wash- 
ington's visage, pale from fever and fatigue 
but lighted by a soul whose fire never for a 
moment grew dim. 

It was a sad, a meaning contrast. 

At last the silence was broken by the husky 
voice of Braddock — 

" George, in a little while I shall be dead" 
— his lip did not quiver, nor his eye wander 
— " When I am dead let me be buried in my 
uniform, and let my body be protected from 
dishonor." 

Washington pressed the cold hand, and 
answered in a subdued voice — 

" It shall be as you wish." 

"George," continued Braddock — and a last 
throb of pain distorted his face — it was only 
for a moment — " I have a last word to say- 
to you. It is not of friends, now far away — 
I may have those who love me, who long for 
my return. But why speak of them ? Before 
the sun is low, I shall be dead — - " 

He paused and turned his face to the 
shadow. 

" Speak ! If you have a message, I will 
fulfil it I" whispered Washington, bending over 
the dying man. 

" These ^weary days of our retreat have 
brought strange thoughts home to me !" said 
Braddock in a calm voice. " I scorned your 
advice — I did more — I scorned that instinct 
of a heroic soul which fills your bosom, and 
which is worth all the experience in the world. 
Behold the result ! — An army cut to pieces — 
my name given out to dishonor — seven hun- 
dred corpses out of twelve hundred living 
men!" 

His eyes grew brighter — his voice rose. 

" Do not speak thus !" faltered Washington, 
wrung to the heart by the last words of the 
death-stricken man. 

" And for myself, a dishonored name, an 
unknown grave !" 

"No! no!" cried Washington 

" There is no need of flattery at this hour. 
The truth, if never seen before, comes up 
terribly to us in the hour of death" — and the 
eye of the dying man suddenly brightened into 
Qew life. " Young man, I marked you in the 



hour of battle. I saw you resolved and calm, 
while all the rest were mad with rage, or 
palsied by dismay. That battle, which to me 
is dishonor, which to seven hundred others 
means only defeat and an unwept grave, to you 
— to you — is life and fame !" 

He dropped the hand of young Washington, 
and sank back against the tree, pale, and cold, 
and trembling. 

Washington could not speak. 
Bending near the dying General, one hand 
still extended, while the other shadowed his 
face, he felt the memories of his boyhood come 
over him — suddenly — like a burst of sun- 
shine through a thunder cloud — and a thought 
of the Future took shape before him, and 
panted with life. 

Well was it that the shadowing hand hid the 
agitated face of young Washington from the 
gaze of the dying General. 

And over the dreary glen the fires, were 
brightly burning, and through the thick foliage 
great pillars of cloudy smoke rose in the even- 
ing sky, and here and there, collected in 
groups of two and three, the dismayed soldiers 
watched the dying man from afar, and talked 
of the fatal day of Monongahela. 

It is a terrible thing to see one man ridden 
by the nightmare fears of insanity, but the 
most terrible insanity is that which throbs at 
the same instant in the breast of a large body 
of men, palsying and firing every heart by 
turns, and overwhelming the individuality of 
every man by one universal terror. 

A panic like this swayed the fugitives from 
Braddock's field. They were fresh from the 
scenes of massacre ; they feared the war-whoop 
of the Indian might startle the silence of the 
pass before another moment was gone ; they 
turned from side to side, in expectation of the 
rifle shot and yell of murder. 

And all the while Braddock was dying at 
the foot of the sycamore, with the young 
Washington kneeling near him. 

" George, had I won the battle, your name 
wo-uld have been lost to fame. But the battle 
lost, it was your glorious part to save the liv- 
ing from the dead, and bear the torn flag from 
the grasp of the enemy. Therefore the battle 
lost for me is a battle gained for you, a battle 
won for your country — for the day will come 
when your countrymen, remembering Brad- 



THE DEATH OF BRADDOCK. 



63 



dock's fight, will call for their young hero, and 
demand his sword in a more glorious field." 

Few wcrds were spoken after this, between 
the dying and the dead. 

With the declining day, the life of Braddock 
faded fast away. When the sunset lingered 
on the top of the loftiest oak — it rises yonder 
on the northern side of the dell — there was no 
longer a dying man stretched at the foot of the 
sycamore. 

There was a corpse, clad in scarlet, with a 
deeper scarlet near the heart — a corpse, rest- 
, ing on the sod with leaden eyes, turned toward 
a glimpse of the sunset sky — and a group of 
silent and dismayed soldiers, standing near the 
dead, the form of young Washington rising 
over all. 

Some few paces distant, hardy backwoods- 
men with spades in their hands, flashed the 
earth aside, and made a grave for Braddock in 
the centre of the road. A dreary road leading 
through the wilderness from Fort Necessity to 
Fort Duquesne, which had felt the hoof of his 
war-horse five days ago, and now was to em- 
bosom his corpse. 

Mournful, and yet sublime in its very desola- 
tion was the funeral of the dead General. 

The grave was sunken — a cavity yawned 
in the centre of the road — while the fresh 
earth lay piled in brown heaps on either side. 

The evening shadows were upon the scene. 
Still trembled sunset upon the lofty tree, and 
the golden sky began to deepen into night. 

They wrapped the dead man in a tattered 
flag. The red cross of England was laid upon 
his breast, and the folds of the torn banner 
shut him out from the light forever. They 
held his body over the grave ; two rough back- 
woodsmen, one convulsed with rude emotion, 
the other calm and tearless as stone. 

The fearless man held the head of the Gen- 
eral, and every eye remarked the giant stature, 
the broad chest and scarred face of the uncouth 
backwoodsman. 

"My Brother!" he said, as he gazed on 
Braddock's face — it was his rifle that had 
dealt the death to the General, on the fatal hill- 
side of Monongahela. 

At the head of the grave, his form erect and 
his forehead bare, stood Washington, his torn 
attire showing the bullet marks of Braddock's 
field The shadows gathered thicker — his 



face and its varied emotions were not visible 

— but through the stillness and the gloom they 
heard his voice, speaking some words of hope 
over the body of the dead. 

The form of those words, their exact me- 
mory has long since passed away, but Wash- 
ington never till his latest hour forgot the twi- 
light of that lonely glen, when standing at the 
head of the rude grave — dug in the centre of 
the road — he gave the body of Braddock to 
grave- worm and the clod. 

They lowered it into the grave — the rug- 
ged backwoodsmen, one trembling, the other 
firm and tearless. 

And as the last glimpse of light left the tree- 
top, and the first star came out from the world 
of Heaven, they heaped the earth upon the 
dead, and levelled it like a floor, passing the 
men and horses and heavy wheels over the 
road where the hero slept. 

For they wished to save the corpse from 
dishonor, from the white man's scorn and the 
red man's steel. 

Thus, without one sound of funeral music 

— neither the roll of drum, or the shrill peal 
of musquetry — they buried Braddock, at the 
twilight hour, in the centre of the road. The 
tramp of foosteps, the tread of horses' hoofs, 
the groaning of the cumbrous wheels — these 
echoed sullenly over the grave, as the silent 
procession passed along — these were the only 
sounds which broke the silence of the Gen- 
eral's funeral. 

Soon the fugitives were on their way again 

— through the forest, from the direction of Fort 
Necessity, came the murmur of their dreary 
march. 

Two figures lingered still — one near the 
grave, leaning on a sword, and the other near 
a tree, cutting some rude characters into its 
rough bark. 

And the one who leant upon his sword, and 
with a swelling heart stood over Braddock's 
corpse — for there was no traces of a grave — 
was Washington. 

The other ; a giant hunter, grimly clad, with 
many a scar upon his face. You may guess 
his name. He traced with his hunting knife 
upon the bark of the tree, two crosses, one in 
memory of the place where Braddock lay — 
the other in memory of the hand which winged 
the fatal bullet, or, perchance, in memory of 
"Brother Arthvr." 



LEGEND TENTH. 



THE KING AND THE PLANTER. 



In a venerable edifice, dedicated to the 
memory of a thousand years — crowded with 
monuments which resembled palaces — dense 
and heavy with the atmosphere of death — a 
young man stood one night in the fall of 1760, 
leaning against a column, his arms folded and 
his eyes cast to the floor. 

That ancient place was full of light and dark- 
ness — light more vivid than day, and dark- 
ness deeper than the night. The great pillars 
flung broad shadows over the floor, with belts 
of radiance quivering here and there ; the 
monuments stood boldly forth in red light, their 
flowers of marble, and images of death, glow- 
ing into life and bloom ; the arches of the 
place, stretching from pillar to pillar, and be- 
wildering the eye with the intricate mazes of 
Gothic architecture, waved with the banners 
of a royal race. Banners rich with armorial 
splendors, and sad with emblems of the grave. 

The young man leaning with folded arms, 
against a pillar, gazed in silence down a broad 
aisle, which led among colossal monuments, 
like the track of time among the dead of past 
ages. 

It was an impressive sight which met his 
gaze. Advancing slowly, to the sound of low 
deep music, a coffin burdened with velvet and 
gold, appeared in the centre of a circle of 
lighted torches. 

Upon that coflin a crown was laid — it shone 
from the black velvet like a strange jewel, set 
upon the breast of Death. 

Around the coflin were yeomen of a royal 



guard, clad in gay attire, and behind it, a long 
procession extended far into the distance, until 
its light and splendor dwindled into one little 
point of brightness. There were priests clad 
in sable — princes tottering under the weight 
of robes, whose lengthened trains were borne 
by lines of vassals — peers whose coronets 
glimmered dimly under jet black plumes. 

The far-extending arches flung back the 
music, which groaned in a dismal chaimt for 
the dead — a dirge which had a voice but no 
sorrow, a moan but no tears. 

The same torch-light which flashed over the 
gorgeous sadness of the funeral array, beamed 
upon the face of the young man, while his form 
was lost in shadow. 

In that great temple he stood alone. On one 
side was darkness ; on the other the coflin 
glittering with a crown, and the procession 
dwindling away in brightness, until it was lost 
in the distance. 

The face of the young man was by no means 
unhandsome. It was a fair face ; the eye- 
balls somewhat protuberant, the nether lip 
hanging with an irresolute expression, but the 
eyes were clear deep blue, and the low fore- 
head and blonde complexion were relieved by 
carefully arranged hair, strewn with white 
powder, after the fashion of the time. 

He was dressed in sable ; on his left breast 
shone a single star. 

And while leaning against the pillar, his bine 
eye glanced upon the procession, the coflin 
and the mourners, which every moment drew 

(07) 



WASHINGTON 

nearer, the young man's face was agitated by 
a singular expression. 

It gave a glow to his cheek, imparted bright- 
ness to his eye, and made his irresolute lip, 
seem firm and determined. 

This expression was not sorrow — it was 
joy — joy whose very intensity was sublime. 

For standing alone, by a great column of 
Westminster Abbey, the handsome youth, 
whose form and face were ripening fast into 
beautiful manhood, did not weep as he beheld 
the coffin — did not feel his heart grow heavy 
with even one throb of awe, as the dismal 
funeral chaunt swelled wearily upon the air. 

It was the coffin of a king which he beheld. 
Within that coffin lay the corse of a power- 
ful king. They were bearing him slowly along 
the broad aisle — amid encircling soldiers, 
priests and peers — under the arches hung 
with banners — with the chaunt of death, the 
solemn gleam of muffled arms, the sweeping 
of princely robes, and bearing him to the vault 
which yawned in the centre of the abbey. 

And yet there was no tear in the young 
man's eye. He gazed upon the coffin, watched 
each minute detail of the splendid mockery, 
and uttered in a low voice the simple words — 

"And I am King of England — now 

The young man was George the Third, 
gazing upon the funeral of his royal grandsire, 
George the Second. 

He felt it in every vein, it shone from his 
eye, and with an involuntary impulse, he 
reached forth his arm, exclaiming once more— 

" King of England — King of England ' ' 

King of England ! 

Not the England which a Norman Robber 
conquered, one morning in the distant ages. 
Not the England which quivered under the 
iron footsteps of the Third Edward, or grew 
drunk with blood under the Eighth Henry. 
Not the England which saw Elizabeth upon 
the throne ; Elizabeth who dipped her fair 
maiden hands in the blood of Mary, and 
boasted amid her virtuous orgies that she was, 
in truth, the Virgin Queen. Not the stern, 
heroic England which tried a crowned crim- 
inal, and sent him to the scaffold, as a warn- 
ing through all time to Royal Guilt. Not the 
England which grew great and strong, stern in 
•ourage, mighty in its victories, mightier in its 



AND HIS MEN. 

people, under the rule of a Brewer/ named 
Cromwell. 

No ! But an England, strong with the ac- 
cumulated conquests of ages, red with the con- 
centrated carnage of a thousand years : at oncej 
infamous with consecrated Murder, and glori- 
ous with an Empire mightier than Imperial 
Rome. 

This young man, clad in sable — a star glit- 
tering on his breast — can lay his hand upon 
the Map of the World, and sweeping his Royal 
finger over England, Scotland, Ireland — over 
North America — over India — exclaim, with- 
out a boast : 

"This, and this — and this — one-eighth of 
the world, at least, is mine!" 

Was it not enough to bewilder even a royaJ 
brain ? 

India, won by an hundred thousand corpses, 
multiplied by ten — Canada conquered with 
the blood of Wolfe, poured forth upon the 
rock of Quebec — North America, from Georgia 
to Massachusetts, secure under the dominion 
of British Custom, British Taxes, and British 
Law— Scotland, reeking with the carnage of 
Glencoe — Ireland, beaten down at last, tram- 
pled into dumb anguish, into slavery that had 
no lower deep — — 

This was " England" in 1760, and over 
this England George the Second had reigned ; 
and the handsome youth, George the Third, 
was about to reign. 

Therefore the spectacle of the royal funeral 

— the coffin with purple and gold, the death- 
chaunt and the long train of splendid mourners 

— brought no sorrow to the heart of the young 
man, who, leaning against the column, mur- 
mured — 

"I am King of England— now" 

And there came no omen to fright the soul 
of the young King, there was no word of the 
future to make him feel afraid. The banners 
that waved from the wide arches, the priests 
and lords who came along the aisle, the chaunt 
of the death, and the coffin adorned by a 
Crown, only spoke to nim of a glorious future, 
of a kingdom unbroken by dissension, an im- 
perial sway, consecrated by God and ac- 
knowledged by men. 

And all the while through the dark night 
which brooded over London, Westminster 



THE KING AND 

Abbey illuminated for the reception of the royal 
corpse, shone like a funeral pyre. 

Let us for a moment gaze upon the hand- 
some face which is turned toward the light, 
while the young form is buried in shadow. 
Let us mark the joy now glowing warmly on 
the cheeks and flashing clearly in the blue 
eyes. Let us stand in the midst of this dread 
Mausoleum, called Westminster Abbey, and 
while the splendors of a royal funeral mock 
the monuments that start into view on every 
side, and England sends her Prince and Priest 
to bury the dead King, we will look upon the 
face of the living Monarch, who, blessed by 
youth, is about to enter upon a glorious career. 

At this moment, we will ask one or more 
rude questions, in our plain, peasant way — 

Is there no danger in the future for this 
King? 

" Have the coming years any judgment for 
his Throne, any stern decree against his 
power and the power of Kings like him?" 

There is danger for the King ; danger for 
his Throne ; clanger for the power of Kings 
like him. 

Where ? 

In England ? Is he not the Sovereign Lord, 
backed by a horde of Nobles, backed by a 
code of bloody penal laws ? 

Not in England — but yonder ? Yonder, 
over the ocean — follow me across the track- 
less ocean, into a land whose awful forests 
and dread solitudes, compare but poorly with 
Westminster Abbey, now flashing through the 
dark night, like a sublime funeral pyre. 

We are here, by the waves of the Potomac. 
A mansion, not remarkable for its height, or 
its breadth, or for the splendor of its arch- 
itecture, rises on the summit of a gently slop- 
ing hill. It is half encircled by trees, and from 
yonder window, the ray of a lamp trembles 
out upon the dark river. 

Entering the room lighted by that lamp, we 
behold a man of twenty-eight years seated be- 
side a table, his cheek resting on his hand. He 
is clad very plainly. In fact, he wears the 
costume of a Planter of 1760. His form, tall 
and muscular, his face sharpened in every 
outline, indicate a life of some experience and 
toil. 

Before him, on the table, rests a letter, and 
a sword whose long blade is covered with rust. 



THE PLANTER. 69 

It may be seen that there are stirring memo- 
ries connected with the letter and the sword, 
for as the solitary man gazes upon them, his 
eye brightens and his cheek flashes into vigo- 
rous bloom. 

It is a very plain, uninteresting scene ; such 
as we may behold at any moment of our lives. 
A. man of twenty-eight years, seated alone, in 
a neatly furnished chamber, his cheek resting 
on his hand, and his brightening eye fixed 
upon a letter and a sword. 

Look upon him — mark each outline of his 
form — note each outline of his face. You see 
nothing remarkable in the scene. It is only a 
Virginian Planter, sitting alone in his home, 
by the banks of the Potomac, at dead of night. 
That is all you behold. 

The contrast between this solitary figure and 
Westminster Abbey, flashing with ten thou- 
sand lights, crowded by a royal funeral, ten- 
anted by a dead King, and a living — is it not 
idle to think of any contrast ? 

And yet the solitary Planter buried in 
thought, sees spreading before him a succes- 
sion of wild and phantasmal pictures. He is 
dreaming, not in sleep, but dreaming wide 
awake. 

He is mounted upon a horse ,• that sword is 
in his hand ; an army of peasants, only peas- 
ants, extends around him. He is in battle ; 
his army is crushed in dust and blood. But 
another army darts into being from the dust 
and blood ; his sword is still in his hand, and 
now — waving over his head — a flag, such a 
flag as never was seen before, nutters on the air 
of battle. There is another contest; there are 
cold faces upturned to a setting sun, and then 
the scene changes. 

Still it is only a dream, a wandering dream, 
but the Planter is in the Senate Hall of a 
People — how vague, how wild a dream! In 
the Senate Hall of a People — and amid the 
deep silence of a breathless multitude, he is 
invested with the crude insignia of a great of- 
fice — he is hailed as the Liberator of a Na- 
tion — acknowledged as the Ruler of freemen. 

Such are the dreams of the Planter, and 
rising from his seat he advances to the window, 
and looks forth upon the night. 

He smiles as he thinks of his waking dream 
— and yet it still pursues him, with its pic- 
tures of battles all ending with a free people. 



70 WASHINGTON 

all terminating in that scene, where a nation of 
freemen hail their Ruler in the person of their 
Liberator. 

Smiling at his vague wild thoughts, the 
Planter approached the table again — pauses for 
a moment while the light streams over his 
young face, already stamped with thought — 
and then absently, scarce conscious of the ac- 
tion, lays his hand upon his sword — 

There is the danger, which the future has 
in store for King George the Third. 

There — in that hand grasping the sword — 
in that eye lighting up with soul, in that face 
stamped with a Prophecy of the Future — 
there is the judgment which threatens the 
future of King George and all Kings like 
him. 



AND HIS MEN. 

They are burying the dead King in the Ab- 
bey. They are placing the gorgeous coffin in 
the vault; there are lines of torches, and 
splendid apparel, deep crowds of mourners, 
and a living King beside his grave. 

At the same moment, perchance the Vir- 
ginia Planter, away in his new-world home, in 
his silent chamber, grasps his sword, and dares 
to think of the Future. 

He utters certain half-coherent words — 

" This sword I wore at Braddock's field — 
and" — 

He did not say where he would wear it 
again, but his hand presses firmly the hilt of 
his sword. 

Was his dream false ? Did that sword ever 
threaten the power of King George ? 



LEGEND TWELFTH. 



WASHINGTON'S CHRISTMAS. 
A LEGEND OF VALLEY FORGE. 



An ancient pistol, grim with the dents of 
tattle, black with the rust of years, its stock of 
dark mahogany inlaid with brass, its barrel at 
least fourteen inches long, its tarnished lock 
bearing the dim inscription, " G. R. — 1718," 
traced beside the figure of a Royal Crown. 

An ancient clock, looking out from its coffin- 
like case, with its dusky countenance sculp- 
tured into dead flowers, the words " Augustin 
Neiser, German? n, 1732," engraven in dis- 
tinct round hand, beneath the hands — an 
ancient clock, whose bell rings out through the 
silence of the night, with a clear, deep, silver 
sound, like the knell of a dead century ; the 
last word of the last of an hundred years. 

An ancient arm chair, framed of solid oak, 
the paint worn long ago from its brown arms, 
the rude carvings which surmount its high 
back, worn long ago, as smooth as polished 
marble, with the letters "J. K., 1740," cut in 
rough old German text, well nigh blotted out 
by the touch of an hundred years. 

An ancient Bible, massive in its heavy 
covers, and clasped with pieces of carved silver, 
its pages, embronzed by age, stained with the 
traces of many a bitter tear, comprising that 



"Family Relics " — in itself the history of 
a race. 

An ancient round table, fashioned of walnut, 
that was planted on the Wissahikon hills, 
three hundred years ago, when there were 
Red Men in the land, who rudely worshipped 
God in the rocks and trees and sky, and made 
Religion of their Revenge — an ancient round 
table, once strong and firm, but now creaking 
and groaning as with the anguish of its 
memories, that reach far back into the shadows 
of an hundred years. 

— They are all in my room, at this dead 
hour of midnight and silence, as I write these 
words, all glaring in the light ^>f the wood-fire 
which crumbles on the hearth. 

The clock stands in the corner, pointing to 
twelve, the arm-chair is near it, spreading forth 
its arms, as if to catch the full warmth of the 
fire. The Pistol with its voiceless tube, rests 
upon the Round Table, on which I write, and 
outspread before me, is the venerable Book with 
its clasps of silver. 

I might tell you the story of these Relics of 
the Past, and believe me, the story which ibev 
bring home to me — or rather the hundred &if« 



72 WASHINGTON 

ferent Legends — would make the tears stand 
in your eyes, the blood pulsate tumultuously 
about your hearts. 

For in that arm-chair, more than a hundred 
years ago, an old man sate, bearing the name 
which now is mine, and lifted his withered 
hands and blessed his five sons, five manly 
boys, reared in the woods of Wissahikon, which 
I am so foolish as to love and cherish, even at 
this hour, when it is blasphemous to love any 
God, but the Lord of the Silver Dollar. 

That old man — whose bronzed face and 
hair as white as drifted snow, presented a true 
Image of that French-German race, who left 
their native land, and brought their Spiritual 
Faith, which taught that God might be wor- 
shipped without Church or Priest, or Creed, 
here, to the hills of Wissahikon, here to the 
rolling vallies, called Germantown — 'that aged 
Father, laid his withered hands upon the brown 
locks of his sons, and blessed them as he died. 

Of the Fate of those sons, a volume might 
be written. Not a volume for those to read, 
who love big names, and pretty uniforms, and 
smooth sentences, soft and tasteless as the pulp 
which fills your Critic's skull, and passes for 
brains — no ! But a volume for those ignorant 
souls, to read and love, who like to see the 
Providence of God, shining out, even from the 
records of the humblest Home. 

One son, went forth from that old man's 
roof and in the Dream-Land of Wyoming, 
reared himself a Home, and worshipped God, 
even as his father, without Priest — save the 
voice of his own soul — or Temple, save that 
which was sheltered by his fireside rafters, or 
that glorious church which had the Mountains 
for its pillars, the green vallies for its floor, 
/and for its dome, the blue canopy of God's 
own sky. • That son fell in the Massacre of 
Wyoming ; at this hour the white monument, 
erected on the banks of the Susquehanna, 
bears his name, enrolled among the Martyrs. 

Another son, died in battte, in the cause of 
Washington. Of the Third and his race, all 
traces were lost, until two years ago, when I 
pressed the hand of his grand-son, who came 
from the hills of Carolina. The Fourth went 
forth into the western wilds and left no trace 
or record of his fate. - 

The Fifth and last son, dwelt all his life in 



AND HIS MEN' 

the home of his fathers, and saw many children 
blossom into the bloom of womanhood, or the 
prime of manhood. Death has reaped every 
man of them all, and gathered them into the 
full sheaf of the graveyard : and at the present 
hour, the author of these lines is the only man 
that bears the name of the white-haired Pa- 
triarch who one hundred years ago sat in the 
arm-chair and blessed his children as he died. 

You will therefore know what I mean, 
when I say that these relics of the Past, have 
a voice for me, as sad, as tender, as a sound 
from the lips of the dying. 

The old clock that rings so deeply now, its 
silver voice pealed as clearly in the bloodiest 
hour of the Battle of Germantown. The 
Round Table on which I write, once bore the 
paper on which Lord Cornwallis traced the 
hurried and deadly details of the fight. But it 
is not of these historic memories that I speak : 
No ! There are other and more tender mem- 
ories. That old clock pealed at the birth 
hour of all my people, and rung their knell 
as one by one they died. 

Around the Table, how many faces have 
been gathered in a Circle of Home, faces that 
now are lost in graveyard dust ! 

In that old chair, many a form has reposed 
— how many, how revered, how dear — that 
now find rest, within the narrow panels of the 
cofiin ! 

And the old clock, like a spirit whom no 
anguish can one moment sway from his calm 
watch over the dying men and dying years, 
rings out now, clear and deep, as it will ring 
when I too, am gathered to the graveyard 
sheaf. 

The Pistol too, so grim in its battered tube 
and stock, has a story — sad, touching — 
linked with the tradition of the Round Table, 
the arm chair, the clasped Bible and centuried 
Clock. The pistol alone, never belonged to 
my people, but there was a time, in the dark 
hour of the Revolution, when Clock and 
Chair, Bible and Table, passed into the hands 
of a collateral branch of my race, and became 
connected with the grim thing of death, in a 
Legend of harrowing yet tender details. 

Let me tell you that Legend now, while the 
old cloak, with its' silver voice, rings out the 
Hour of Twelve ! 



WASHINGTON S CHRISTMAS. 



There was snow upon the hills ; a mass of 
leaden cloud, with hroken edges, was hung 
across the sky ; through the deep gorges, down 
to the river, roared the winter wind, howling 
the funeral song of the dying year ; and yet, 
within the stone farm-house of Valley Forge, 
the Christmas fire burned with a warm and 
cheerful glow. 

A spacious room, with white walls and 
sanded floor, huge rafters overhead, and a 
broad hearth, heaped with massive hickory 
logs. 

On that hearth, in the oaken chair, sat a man 
of some sixty years ; his athletic form, clad in 
coarse garments of reddish brown, his hands, 
cramped by toil, laid on his knees, while his 
face glowed with its long beard and hair turn- 
ing grey, and hues darkened by the summer 
sun, in the cheerful light of the Christmas fire. 

True, the garments of the old man were of 
coarse home-spun — true, his floor was cover- 
ed by no gay carpeting — the huge rafters over- 
head concealed by no paint or plaster, and yet, 
as he sate there, the room had a joyous look, 
full of the word home, and his dark brown 
cheek, with its hair and beard, silvering from 
brown to grey, spoke something of a heart at 
peace with God and man. 

Crouching on the hearth, her head laid on 
the old man's knee, a girl of sixteen years — 
her young form blossoming fast into the shape 
and ripeness of woman — turned her clear 
hazel eyes towards the light, and twined her 
small hands among the cramped fingers of the 
old man. 

Her form was attired in plain home-spun — 
boddice and skirt of dark brown — and yet it 
was one of those forms, which, in the warm 
bosom just trembling into virgin ripeness, the 
lithe waist, and the rounded outlines of the 
shape, remind you very much of a flower that 
qnivers on the stem, the red bloom just peep- 
ing from the green leaves, and quivers more 
gently in the moment when it is about to burst 
the leaves, and blush into perfect loveliness. 

A very loveable girl, with a soft, innocent 
face — almost soft as infancy, and innocent as 
the prayer of a child — was this maiden, 
crouching by her father's knee on the hearth of 
stone. Her brown hair, parted in two rich 
masses, flowed over his knees, and half con- 
cealed their hands. 



"Katrine," said the old man — he bore the 
plain German name of Israel Kuch, and spoke 
with a German accent — "it is now twenty 
years and more, since I left my native land, 
with the brethren of my faith. They would 
not let us worship God in our own way ; so 
we followed Him into the wilderness, and made 
our homes where no man dare murder his 
brother on account of his creed. You know 
our custom, Katrine?" 

The young girl looked up, and in a voice 
soft and whispering, answered : 

" Every Christmas night, at the hour of 
twelve, when the Lord Christ was born in the 
manger of Bethlehem, we sing the Christmas 
hymn, and read a chapter from the Book of 
God." 

You see this old pioneer of the wilderness, 
dwelling in the woods of Valley Forge-, has 
planted in the heart of his child the name of 
Jesus ! 

Silently she rose, and gazed upon the old 
clock — it stands there, in the corner, with 
its broad face to the fire, pointing to the hour 
of twelve — and then taking the old Bible with 
silver clasps from the table, she laid it on her 
father's knees. 

A Christinas Picture ! 

The old man, seated in the arm-chair, the 
young girl, in her virgin bloom, bending before 
him, the same fireside glow, warming his 
withered face, her velvet cheek, and revealing 
the opened Bible, whose silver clasps shone 
like stars in the ruddy light. 

Israel's face was suddenly mantled with 
deep sadness : 

" There was a time, Katrine, when your 
mother was here to sing the Christmas hymn. 
She sleeps in the grave-yard now " 

There was another absent, whose memory 
comes freshly to their hearts, though his name 
is not upon their lips. 

"He, too, is absent from home. He journeys 
with the men of war: he has forgotten that 
religion of peace which he learned by this 
hearth, when he sang with us the Christmas 
hymn ! " 

The brave and fearless Konradt ! Even 
now, turning her eyes — they were wet with 
tears — from the light, Katrine remembered 
him, her brother. A man of twenty years, 
with a form like the forest poplar, a ruddy 



74 "WASHINGTON 

brown face, brilliant with large grey eyes and 
shadowed by masses of chestnut-colored hair. 
Katrine saw him as he looked on the day — 
nearly a year gone by — when, with his true 
rifle in his grasp, he passed the threshold of 
home, bound for the Camp of Washington. 

The old man knelt, and laid the Bible on 
the chair. Witnout, the storm howled, and the 
snow fell — within, the Christmas fire flung 
its merry blaze, and the voice of prayer arose. 
By her father's side, knelt the young girl, 
placing her clasped hands on her bosom, while 
the fringes of her closed eyelids swept her 
cheek. 

And as the storm howled, the old man read 
hose words which are at once poetry and re- 
ligion. Beautiful it was to hear, in that lonely 
home of Valley Forge, swelling from an old 
man's lips, the very words which the Christians 
of Rome, hunted to death, like wild beasts, 
read in the catacombs — those cities of the 
dead, hidden beneath the city of the living — 
eighteen hundred years ago ! 

And there were in the same country, shepherds 
abiding in the field, keeping watch over their Jlocks by 
night. 

And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and 
(he glory of the Lord shone round about them : and 
they were sore afraid. 

And the angel said unto them, fear not: for behold 
I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be 
to all people. 

For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, 
a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. 

The clock rung forth the hour of twelve, as 
the last word died on the old man's lips. 

Clasping their hands over the Bible, they 
bent their heads in silent prayer, her brown 
curl-s mingling with the grey hairs of her 
father. And the fireside light shone over them, 
as they knelt, and baptized them with its glow. 

But suddenly, breaking like a thunder crash 
upon that house of prayer, a sound was heard, 
mingling with the howling of the storm, and 
yet heard distinctly from that howling, as the 
musket shot is heard through the cannon's roar. 

A footstep — it is in the yard without the 
farm-house — it is upon the stone steps leading 
to the porch — it is upon the porch, and the 
door springs with a crash, wide open. 

At once, with the same impulse, Israel and 
his child rise from their knees : with dilating 



AND HIS MEN. 

eyes they behold the sight, which we may be 
hold with them. 

Upon the threshold stands a wild figure, 
gazing round the room, with a glassy — a 
horror-stricken stare. It is a man of some 
twenty-five years, whose hair and beard in- 
crease the deathly paleness of his face, with 
their raven-black hues, and give a wilder g-are 
to his eyes — so dark, so bright, so full oi 
horror. 

" John !" — the solitary word shrieked from 
the maiden's lips, for in the wild form she re- 
cognized her lover — her betrothed husband. 

" John !" the old man echoed — " you are 
a man of peace reared by my dearest friend, 
your father, in the lessons of the Gospel, and 
yet I behold you standing here, on Christmas 
night, a bloody weapon in your hand — that 
hand itself stained with blood !" 

Not a word from the lips of the intruder ! 

Staggering forward, he dashed the pistol on 
the floor — it is there, dripping blood, even 
where the flame glows brightest — and sank, 
like a lifeless mass, at the old man's feet. 

" Save me, Israel, save me !" — he shrieked 
— "for I have done murder, and the avenger 
of blood is on my track !" 

"You.'" — the voices of the old man and 
his virgin child joined in chorus. 

"Yea — I — I! — the child of prayer; — -I 
so far forgot the lessons which I learned from 
my father, as to become one of a secret band of 
Loyalists, who have taken an oath to uphold 
the cause of the King. They swore to have 
the life of the Rebel leader — cast lots, who 
should do the deed — the lot fell on me." 

In the excess of his remorse, he suffered his 
head to droop, until his dark locks touched the 
floor. The old man stood as though a thunder- 
stroke had blasted him, while Katrine, raising 
her hands to her forehead, gazed upon her 
lover with an expression of bewildered pity 
and horror. 

" I swore to do the deed ! To-night, I saw 
Washington leave his quarters, near the 
Schuylkill — tracked him toward this farm- 
house — a solitary dragoon rode some few feet 
behind him. You see, I was wound up to 
madness by the horrible oath — I nerved my 
soul for the deed — I fired !" 

" You killed Washington?" 

"No — no! The night was dark — m j 



WASHINGTON 

aim unsteady — I fired — the pistol exploded 
in my grasp — I saw the dragoon, the innocent 
man, fall from his steed ! I am a murderer — 
the curse of Cain — I feel it fasten on my 
forehead Hark ! The Rebels pursue me — 
I am lost!" 

The sound of hoofs, the clattering of swords, 
resounded outside the farm-house. In a mo- 
ment the Americans will enter, and secure the 
assassin. The strong man, who grovels on 
the floor — blasted all at once into an image of 
despair, more from remorse than fear — raised 
his head and moaned in a tone of agony — 

" Israel — I am lost !" 

" You have done a terrible thing in the 
.sight of the Lord, John — but I will save 
you." 

Hark ! The soldiers have dismounted, 
they are on the porch — the old man drags 
the murderer from his knees, and points to- 
ward the eastern door. 

" Enter ! It is the bed-chamber of my absent 
son. A secret passage — built in the time of 
the Indians — leads into the cellar, and from 
thence into the fields, a hundred yards from 
the house. You will find the door on one 
side of the fire-place — I, myself, will hurry 
to the fields, and open the spring-house door 
— for into the spring-house this passage 
leads!" 

With these muttered words, he thrust the 
murderer into the bed-chamber of his son — 
closed the door — and turned in time, and only 
in time, to confront a band of American dra- 
gDons, who rushed from the porch into the room. 

•'The murderer?" shouted the foremost 
dragoon — a man stalwart in form, with a steel 
helmet, surmounted by a bucktail plume, on 
his brow, a sword gleaming in his hand. 
" The murderer ? — where is he? He went 
this way — entered this house — we must have 
him—" 

The old man with his beard imparting a 
venerable appearance to his face, stood erect, 
in the presence of those armed men, and sur- 
veyed their drawn swords without a fear. 

And Katrine — where is she ? 

Upon her knees, before the Bible, spread 
open in the old arm-chair, her brown tresses 
flowing over her shoulders, her eyes closed — 
the blood-stained pistol touching the folds of 
her dress. 



's CHRISTMAS. 75 

It was a moment of fearful trial to the aged 
Christian. He would not lie — he could not 
give up to certain death any man, even a 
murderer, who had claimed sanctuary in his 
home. And yet, he must either utter a lie — 
or surrender up to death the son of his old- 
time friend. 

" Why do you enter my home, with your 
drawn swords, at this still hour of Christmas 
night?" he slowly said, anxious to gain time. 
Hark ! There is a creaking sound in the next 
room : the murderer has discovered the secret 
door. 

The only reply which Israel received was a 
sword levelled at his heart. 

" Come ! no words ! We know the Tory 
is in your house ; and the Tory we will have, 

by — " 

The brawny soldier clutched the hilt of his 
sword, while the point was directed at the old 
man's heart. Meanwhile, in stern silence, his 
comrades gathered round, grasping their pistols 
and swords, with a death-like stillness. The 
Christmas light flashed over the kneeling and 
unconscious girl — over that solitary old man, 
and along the group of maddened soldiers. 

" Friend Thompson, you would not stab an 
unarmed man" — began Israel, in a voice that 
trembled with contending emotions. 

A sudden — a decided reply ! The captain 
made one deadly thrust with his sword, and a 
half-uttered cry of horror, gasped in chorus by 
his brother soldiers, echoed round the place. 
For even to them, maddened by revenge, there 
was something horrible in this murder of an 
unarmed old man. 

The sword flashed home, to its aim. Does 
the old man fall a mangled thing, staining his 
own hearth with his blood ? 

" Come, Captain, this is somewhat too Bri- 
tish for an American soldier !" spoke a strange 
voice ; and a murmur of surprise rose from 
every lip, as the Captain's sword fell clattering 
on the floor. 

Why that murmur of surprise ? Why this 
sudden silence ? Wherefore does even old Is- 
rael stand silent — wondering — dumb 

That stranger, with the commanding form, 
and noble face — stern, determined in its very 
mildness — rivets every eye. 
" Washington !" 

As the cry rose once more, the stranger ad- 



76 



WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 



vanced, and laid the bundle which he bore — 
a wounded man, his forehead marked by a 
hideous gash — upon the hearth, in the strong 
glare of the fire. The stiffened arms of the 
insensible man touched the dress of the uncon- 
scious girl. 

" Quick — my friends — some water for this 
wounded man !" said the stranger ; " I fear me 
he is dying ! I would not have him die thus, 
for our cause knows no braver man than Cor- 
net Kuch !" 

The last word froze the old man's blood. 
So much had liis gaze been rivetted by the 
solemn presence — the warrior form of that 
stranger — that he had not time to gaze upon 
the burden which he bore, half concealed in his 
cloak. 

But the last ivord cut him to the heart. He 
wheeled on his heel, and by the light of the 
Christmas fire beheld the wounded man ex- 
tended on the hearthstone. 

His own son dying, with a hideous wound 
upon his forehead ; lips, eyelids and cheek 
clotted with blood. 

For a moment he reeled backward from the 
sight, and turned his face away. 

The troopers stood as if spell-bound. Wash- 
ington's face writhed with an expression of in- 
voluntary anguish. 

He turned his face to the group again. It 
was changed — horribly changed. That face, 
on which peace seemed to have set its seal for- 
ever, was now livid, ghastly, compressed in the 
lips, and wild as madness in the eyes. 

" My son !" he incoherently gasped. " Lord 
Lord my God, this cup is too bitter ! Let it 
pass from me! My son — Konradt! No! 
no ! • It cannot be !" 

There seemed to be a red light — a sea o 
blood bathed in the glare of flames — rolling 
before his eyes ; his senses swam, his eye 
shone with horrible lustre. 

He strode forward and grasped the pistol 
from the belt of Captain Thompson. 

" He hath slain my son — the bone of my 
bone — the blood of my blood — the prop of 
my old age ! Stand back and let me pass ! 
The murderer is in the spring-house in the 
field. He shall die by my hands !" 

He rushed from the room into the night and 
the darkness. 

" Follow him," cried Washington. " He 



will do harm to himself — and mark ye, let 
one, on peril of life, do harm to the murderer 
of Cornet Kuch!" 

It was at Jhis moment that Katrine awoke 
from her swoon. At this moment, when her 
father rushed forth, pistol in hand, to do a deed 
of murder — when the soldiers, stricken dumb 
by his agony, retreated from his path — when 
the voice of Washington was heard enjoining 
that no harm should be done to the murderer 
of her brother. 

She rose — swept back the brown hair from 
her brow — gazed upon her brother's form, 
with the fatal wound on his forehead. 

At a glance, by that divine instinct which 
God hath given to women, as he bestows glory 
upon his angels, poor Katrine read the whole 
dark mystery. 

" I will save my father from this deed of 
murder!" she cried, and darted into her bro- 
ther's bed-chamber. 

Washington was alone with the wounded 
man. His cloak thrown aside, you see his tall 
form clad in the uniform of blue, relieved by 
buff, his good sword depending from the buck- 
skin belt. His face, glowing with the mature 
manhood of forty-seven years, now bears upon 
every firm lineament the traces of deep mental 
anguish. 

He silently places the Bible on the round 
table, beside the arm-chair, lifts the bloody pis- 
tol from the floor, and then raises the dying 
man from his resting place on the hearth. 

Gently — like a dear mother nursing her 
child — he places the wounded soldier in tht 
arm-chair, and bathes his brow with cold water. 

Then bending over the insensible man, sur- 
veying that frank countenance, now pale as 
death, he washes the blood away, while a deep 
ejaculation rises from his lips. 

It is a scene for us to remember — Christ- 
: mas Night — the lonely farm-house — Wash- 
ington, the Liberator of a People, revealed by 
the Christmas fire, as he bathes the brow of a 
wounded, a dying man. 

Katrine, with her heart throbbing as though 
it would burst, entered the door of the bed- 
chamber, and saw the wretched murderer, seated 
in one corner, the light revealing his livid face. 

" John, you must fly — " she exclaimed, in 
a calm voice, that sounded to him like the tone 



Washington', 

of a dying woman — " It is my brother who 
fell by your * hand — but, I, the sister, will 
save you !" 

She opened the secret door within the fire- 
place, and turned upon him the light of her 
hazel eyes. 

— What words can picture the horror which 
J^rokc from his countenance, then ? 

"Your brother?" he gasped — " Konradt, 
the friend of my soul 1 Oh, this is some hor- 
rible dream ! You know that I love you, 
Katrine — yes, with a love too deep to be of- 
fered to a creature- — a love that is mad, idola- 
trous ! Think you, I would harm Konradt ? 
No — no ! It is a trick of Satan to peril my 
soul!" 

He cowered upon the floor, and clutching 
her hands, looked with fearful intensity into 
her face. 

" Take your hands from mine, John — they 
are stained with my brother's blood. The 
door is open, the secret passage before you — 
fly ! I bid you — I, the sister ! But my father 
will not spare you — even now he hurries to 
the spring-house, to strike you as you seek to 
gain the woods ! Fly ! " 

" I will fly, but it is to meet my death at his 
hands ! " He darted into the secret passage. 

— The memory of that livid face, was 
stamped in terrible distinctness upon the soul 
of the sister, as she gazed wildly around the 
room. 

Now was the moment for the child-like in- 
nocence of her character to spring, all at once, 
into the full bloom of a woman's heroism. 

A shade crossed her face — her red lip grew 
white — she tore the fastenings from her dress, 
for her heart throbbed and grew cold, until she 
• gasped for breath — and in an instant, her dis- 
• ordered hair, could not altogether veil the trans- 
parent loveliness of that bared bosom. 

For a moment she tottered as though she 
would fall lifeless on the floor — the shroud on 
the form of death is not more pale than her 
face. 

In that brief moment, the image of her happy 
home, of the last Christmas, when John and 
Konradt and her father, sat grouped by the 
same fire — rushed vividly through her brain. 

" Now, one is dead — the other, will die by 

. my father's But no ! God will help me 

— I will gave them yet !" 



S CHRISTMAS. 77 

Light m hand, she darted into the shadows 
of the narrow passage. 

Down in the hollow yonder, near the 
Schuylkill, whose hoarse murmur swells 
through the night, rises a small structure of 
dark grey stone, with a solitary door, formed 
of heavy oaken panels, a steep roof, overarched 
by the leafless branches, and a small stream, 
winding from beneath that archway toward the 
river. 

In the summer time, this spring-house of 
Farmer Kuch is a very loveable thing to see. 
Then, the chesnut trees around it, are glorious 
with broad green leaves ; there is a carpet of 
grass and flowers before the dark old door ; the 
very brook, singing its way to the Schuylkill, 
is draperied with vines and blossoms. 

But now it is winter. The trees leafless, 
the brook shrouded in ice, the green prospect 
of hill and valley, transformed into a. wilder- 
ness of snow. 

From that waste, the spring-house rises like 
a tomb, so black, so desolate, and alone. 

Beside the door, stands the farmer, Israel 
Kuch, cold damps like the death-sweat starting 
from his brow, as the pistol trembles in the 
grasp of his right hand. His livid face you 
cannot see — for the night is dark, but the flash 
of his dilating eyes breaks Upon you, even in 
this midnight gloom. All his peace of soul is 
gone : in its place, nothing but madness and 
revenge. 

" Mine only son — the blood of my own 
heart murdered — no ! Lord, I will not falter. 
Even as the Avenger of Blood, in the ancient 
days of Israel, followed the murderer, and put 
him to death, so Lord will I follow and put to 
death the murderer of my son !" 

Listen ! There is a sound in the spring- 
house, a rattling as of bolts unfastening, within 
the door. Yonder glooms the farm-house, not 
one hundred yards distant, and over the waste 
of snow, the troopers come hurrying on. The 
old man, in his madness, has outstripped them. 
In a moment they will be here, but a moment 
will be too late. 

Listen ! The bolt flies back within, but the 
lock without holds the door firm. With one 
blow the old man breaks the padlock, and with 
his finger on the trigger, clutches the pistol, 
and prepares to shoot the murderer as he 
comes. 



7^ WASHINGTON 

That was a moment of intense and sicken- 
ing suspense. 

The door receded, and the ray of a lamp 
streaming through the doorway, revealed the 
old man's livid face, and flung his shadow far 
along the snow. 

It was the murderer, lamp in hand, seeking 
to escape ! 

— Katrine stood there, her bosom bared to 
the cold, and defended only by her brown flow- 
ing hair. She did not see her father. How 
the heart of Israel throbbed in that terrible 
moment ! But shading her eyes with her left 
hand, she called — 

" Father !" 

" I am here !" and transformed by his re- 
venge into an image of unnatural emotion, his 
face from the beard to the brow, hideously 
distorted, he clutched the pistol and confronted 
his child. 

" 0, father ! can this be you ? A pistol in 
your hand " 

" The murderer of my son — where is he ?" 

" But your lessons of peace, father, the 
Bible, which says, 4 Love your enemies' — 
your own heart, father " 

" The Lord hath called me, Katrine, and I 
am here to do his bidding !" cried the wretched 
man, as the hollow glare of his eyes rested 
upon the pale face of the maiden : " Hark ! 
the men of war come — they would cheat me 
of , my victim. "Ah!" he groaned — "Mine 
only son, mine only son, — Konradt mine 
own boy !" 

There was something awful in the depth of 
his agony. 

Scarce had his accents died, when a form 
wilder than his own appeared in the doorway 
— a face streaked with a livid blue glowed in 
the light, and John the Murderer confronted 
the father of his victim. 

"Israel," he said in a husky voice, " It is 
past ! kill me ! but forgive me, for verily, be- 
fore God and the angels, I am a miserable man, 
a sinner who hath lost his soul forever !" 

Willi hands involuntarily joined, he stood 
on the snow, and awaited his fate. 

The old man shrank back at first, but as if 
gathering strength for the deed, he presented 
the pistol and fired. 

At the same moment the lights went out, and 
all was darkness. 



AND HIS MEN. 

But did you see that young form bounding 
in the air, those white arms outspread ? The 
aim of the pistol was turned aside, and Kat- 
rine, crouching on the snow, clutched her 
father by the knees. 

"0, father — you cannot do it — God will 
be angry with you — you cannot murder — 
nay ! nay ! do not shake me from your grasp* 
-—you taught me to love the Lord Christ, 
who says, ' love your enemies,' and I will not 
see you do this deed !" 

" Ah ! the murderer has escaped," groaned 
Israel, struggling to free his knees from the 
grasp of that heroic girl. 

" No !" said a hollow voice, " He is here !" 

Through the gloom, Israel beheld the out- 
lines of the murderer's form, as he stood with 
drooped head and folded arms. 

At the same moment the troopers, like 
shadowy forms, came hurrying round the cor- 
ner of the spring-house, their anus gleaming 
indistinctly in the midnight darkness. 

But the old man saw them not. Reared 
from infancy to love the Bible, to love above 
all the gentleness, the forgiveness of the Gos- 
pels, at this moment of madness, the dark 
scenes of the Old Testament, the terrible judg- 
ments of the Mosaic dispensation, alone pos- 
sessed his soul. 

" John, kneel on this sod, and pray forgive- 
ness of your God, for at this hour I am about 
to put you to death !" 

"No — Israel — this won't do," cried Cap- 
tain Thompson, forgetting his own anger at 
the murderer, in overwhelming pity for the 
despair of the old man — " We will arrest the 
young man, but he must not be harmed ; it's 
Washington's orders !" 

Fiercely the old man scowled upon the 
group — one desperate effort he made to shake 
off the clutch of his daughter, and at the same 
instant he seized a hunter's knife and sprang 
upon his victim ! 

Every man in that crowd held his breath, 
but the brave girl did not unloose her grasp. 
Up to his heart she sprung, around his neck 
she wound her arms, and even as he struck, 
she baffled his deadly aim. 

His madness now swept over all bounds. 
There, unharmed, stood the murderer — there 
grouped the awed soldiers — there, hung to 
her father's neck, quivered the daughter. 



Washington's Christmas. 



79 



With one irresistible movement, he flung 
Katrine from his neck, and knife in hand, 
sprang forward. The strong man, with health 
in bis veins, and youth on his brow, knelt 
calmly for the blow. 

" John, the Lord hath spoken, and I obey !" 
and the knife flashed in his hand. 

But hark ! That cry heard over the waste 
of snow — it reaches the old man's heart, for 
it says " Father !" 

E very man in the group heard that cry, and 
felt his heart grow like ice, with an unknown 
fear — it was the voice of the dead man Cor- 
net Kuch. 

"Joy — thank God — it is my brother's 
voice !" — You behold Katrine sink swooning 
on the snow. 

The old man stood with his knife in mid-air 
— stood bewildered — listening — dumb. 

" Father !" the voice was nearer. 

" Oh, can the demons mock me ? Am I 
indeed given over to the Prince of the Power 
of the air?" Israel pressed his left hand to 
his burning brain. 

The troopers turned, gazed into the dark- 
ness, but they saw nothing save the indistinct 
outline of the farm-house, the cold dead sky. 

" This puzzles me, I'll be confounded if it 
don't !" muttered the stalwart Thompson, as 
even he, an image of robust health, felt his 
heart chill with superstitious fear. 

" Tell me — do 1 dream — that voice -" 

the old man staggered wildly over the frozen 
snow. 

" Father !" the voice spoke at his shoulder, 
this time. 

The old farmer turned, beheld a shadowy 
figure, laid his hand upon a gashed forehead. 

" Father ! It is I — your son, Konradt — not 
killed, scarcely wounded — only a little stunned ! 
Ha, ha ! A mere scratch after all the outcry 
— come father, we will go home !" 

Israel fell like a weight of lead — so heavy, 
s© suddenly — and lay on the snow beside his 
unconscious daughter. 

Another form advanced from the gloom, and 
a voice was heard — 

" Captain, secure your prisoner !" 

It was the voice of Washington. 

In the old farm-house and by the Christmas 
fire again. The broad face of the clock, points 



with its small hand to the hour of One. On 
the round table, rests the blood-stained pistol 
and the opened Bible. Before the fire, ex- 
tended in the arm-chair, his form completely 
broken down by the horrible emotions of the 
past hour, Israel Kuch gazes in the faces of 
his kneeling children. Here, Konradt with 
the gash upon his brow concealed in a white 
cloth, there loveable Katrine, smiling as the 
tears course down her cheeks. 

The troopers wait in the yard, without,, 
ready for the march. 

Up and down along the floor in front of the 
fire, paces Washington, his hands behind his 
back, his eyes cast downward. That face is 
stern as death. Now he pauses — steals a 
glance toward the group, and then — while a 
scarcely perceptible emotion quivers over his 
face — resumes his measured pace again. 

Where is the murderer in thought, the man 
who levelled his pistol at the head of Wash- 
ington ? 

Come with me through the eastern door, 
into this small bed-chamber, where a solitary 
lamp lights up the fire-place, the bed with un- 
ruffled coverlet, the old-fashioned chairs, and 
walls as white as unstained paper. 

Crouching on a chair, his knees supporting 
his elbows, with his cheeks pressed in his cold 
and trembling hands, behold the murderer. His 
pale face is framed in dark hair and beard — 
his throat is bare — his eyes, sunken in the 
sockets, shine with an anguish too big for utter- 
ance. 

Wrapt in his own fiery whirlpool of remorse, 
he does not hear the opening door, nor heed 
the advancing form. A hand is laid upon his 
shoulder ; he looks up and beholds the stern 
face of Washington. As though a bolt had 
stricken him, he shrinks away from that hand, 
for well he knows, that taken in the act of a 
base assassination, he has but one Future — 
the gibbet and the felon's grave. 

"My friend, did I ever harm you!' said 
that deep-toned voice. 

John buried his face in his hands. 

" They speak of you as a quiet, a iciigious 
young man, descended from that class of the 
German people, who hold war and ah that be- 
longs to war, in decided abhorrence. I am 
anxious to know in what manner have I incur- 
red your hatred — why arm yourself against 
my life ?" 



so 



WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 



There was a light in Washington's eye, a 
glow upon his face. John looked up and felt 
encouraged to speak. In broken tones, he 
poured forth the whole story — grew wild, 
painfully eloquent, in that frank confession of 
his last hour. Entangled in a secret associa- 
tion of loyalists, he had been led on from step 
to step, until a horrible and blasphemous oath, 
taken amid scenes of darkness and mystery, 
hurried him to a purpose, which his soul be- 
held with shuddering. " I cannot tell their 
names — my feelings of love to God, loyalty 
to the king were horribly trifled with it is true 
— but I cannot reveal their names! That 
OATH maddened me — you behold me now, 
willing to pay the forfeit of my crime, eager to 
die and be forgotten !" 

With clasped hands and gasping utterance, 
he looked up into the face of Washington. 

The American Chieftain turned his face 
away, and leaned his arm upon the mantel. 
By his. averted face and downcast head, you 
may guess the nature of his thoughts. 

Was he thinking of his omhi life, which be- 
gan with a nature wild and passionate as the 
flowers and sun of the southern clime, and 
grew into ripeness with a calm, cold, stern ex- 
terior, hiding the fires that glowed within the 
heart? Was he thinking of his hardy boy- 
hood, passed among the rocks and mountains 
of the western wilderness, and nourished into 
manhood through many a bitter trial ? 

Did he, that man whose warm heart was 
veiled with an icy shroud — who afterwards 
signed with an unfaltering pen and tearful eyes 
the death-warrant of John Andre — did he be- 
hold amid the wrecks of a mad fanaticism 
which covered the murderer's soul, the tokens 
of a better nature, the buds of a noble man- 
hood ? 

For a long time he pondered there, by the 
hearth, while the miserable John with 
his face growing yet more livid, awaited the 
words of fate. 

" You will be tried, sir, according to the 
forms of law in cases \ike yours provided" — 
«uch were his cold words as he turned his 
cairn fa^e to the murderer again — "In a 



moment the soldiers of my Life Giaard will 
bear you to the camp at Valley Forge." 

He left the bed-chamber with his usual 
measured pace. 

John fell upon his knees, buried his face in 
his hands, which rested on the chair, and tried 
to pray. Tried ! But above him a sky of 
black marble seemed to spread, and as the 
words faltered from his lips they fell back 
upon his heart again like balls of living fire. 

" Come, sir, the guard await you," said the 
voice of Washington 

John started to his feet, confronted his doom, 
and felt — that warm, loveable Katrine quiver- 
ing on his heart, her arms around his neck, 
her loosened hair about his face. 

" There, sir, before you shoot at me again, 
learn to be more careful in your aim." There 
was a smile upon that magnificent face — 
something like a tear in that brilliant eye of 
deep rich gray. 

It was a painful thing to see the freed blood 
pouring in one impetuous torrent from John's 
heart to his face — to see the wonder, doubt, 
tremulous joy, painted there — to see the 
heaJ pillowed on his shoulders, while over 
his uplifted arms fell the maiden's luxuriant 
hair. 

But a glorious thing it was to see that com- 
manding form, one hand resting on the hilt of 
his sword, while the other shaded his eyes 
from the light, yet did not hide the nervous 
movement of his lips. It would have stirred 
your blood to behold that great man on his 
war-horse, riding forth to battle, but now it 
would have forced the tears in torrents from 
your eyes to view him, in that half-lighted 
chamber, shaken almost into womanish feeling, 
as he saw the result of his own — For 
giveness. 

The old farmer reposed in the arm-chair, 
his son bending over him — the pistol and the 
Bible were laid upon the round table — the 
clock tolled one — and the Christmas Fire 
lighted up the faces of the lovers as they knelt 
and took upon their heads, the blessing and 
The Revenge of Washington. 



LEGEND THIRTEENTH. 



THE FOURTH OF JULY. 1776, 

OE 

THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS: 

A. LEGEND OF "WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN" IN CONNECTION WITH THE DECLARATION 

OF INDEPENDENCE. 



6 



(81) 



PROLOGUE 



Through the deep shadows into the gay sunlight — 
through the trees, whose grand old trunks arise 
around us, whose mingling leaves wave in light and 
perfume above us — through the wild-wood paths, 
where the moss grows, and the flowers bloom — 
through the rocks that darken on either side, venera- 
ble with their ten thousand ages, beautiful with the 
vines that float along their hoary brows — through 
this dim old forest, where your foot falls without a 
sound, where your soul feels the presence of its God, 
and your whispered word is flung back by an hundred 
echoes — we will wander, on this calm summer eve. 

It is the Third of July, 1776. 

It is that serene evening hour, when the moss be- 
neath your feet is varied with long belts of black and 
gold. It is the time when the deep quiet of nature — 
the distant sound of leaves and streams — the glow 
of the sun, shining his last, over cloud and sky, melts 
the heart, and steals it away, by gentle steps, to God. 

Then, if we have never prayed, we will fall down 
and worship. Then, if we have never felt the presence 
of God in the awful cathedral aisle, where the smoke 
of the incense winds in snowy wreaths about the 
brow of the Blessed One, or encircles, with a veil of 
misty loveliness, the sad, sweet face of Mary our 
Mother, we will here feel our knees bend, our voices 
falter in prayer, our hearts go up to Heaven, even as 
the last ray of the setting sun melts gently up the sky. 

For this wild wood is the cathedral of Nature, 
where every tree that towers, every flower that bends 
to the sod, as though sleepy with voluptuous perfume, 
every ripple of the stream, every leaf of the bough, 
says, as it floats or shines, or blooms or waves, 
" There is a God, and he is good, and all men are 
his children !" 

You may smile at this — cold hearts of the world 
— who never rise from counting your pennies; you 



may sneer, grave critic, who never felt a heart- 
throb, or owned one thought of beauty, or suffered 
one word of feeling to flow from your pen and make 
men's hearts beat quicker ; but even you, in the calm 
evening hour, would kneel and worship God. 
For it is the Wissahikon. 

I will not bewilder yoar hearts with memories of 
the past, nor tell you that every old tree has its story, 
every foot of mossy earth its legend ; nor point back 
into the brooding shadows of a thousand years, when 
that huge rock was an altar, that beautiful stream, 
winding in light and shadow, the baptismal font of a 
forgotten religion, while here, among these shadowy 
ravines, grouped the maidens, their bosoms beating 
beneath vestments of snowy white, the priests, ar- 
rayed in midnight hues, the sacrificial knife gleaming 
over their heads ; the warriors, whose strange cos- 
tume, and dark physiognomy, and weapons of bat- 
tle, have long since passed from the memory of man. 

But I will ask you — 

Did you ever, on a winter night, when the snow was 
on the ground, and the light of the hearthside fire upon 
your face, lean gently back in your cushioned chair, 
and with half-shut eyes dream a voluptuous dream of a 
summer evening, with the lazy sunshine bathing great 
masses of leaves, while a supernatural stream wound 
softly along, among rocks, and flowers, and trees ? 

Your dream is here ! 

Then, on that winter night, while the wind howled 
without, half-closing your eyes, you saw a winding 
path, leading far down the dell, with sunshine gushing 
from below, and the boughs bending toward the ground 
until they touched the cups of the wild flowers I 

Your dream is here ! 

Or did you behold a cool, shady place in the midst of 
great forest trees, where the wild vines formed a cir- 
cle of undulating leaves, and every leaf was kissing a 

(S3; 



84 



PROLOGUE. 



flower; — where the moss, forming a carpet for your 
feet, seemed glad, as the occasional sunbeams stole 
over its surface, while a rugged limb, interlacing with 
slight branches, all woven together with flowers, formed 
the roof of this perfumed forest home ? 
Your dream is here! 

Or, did you, with your face still glowing in that 
hearthside light, wish to escape the beams of the July 
sun, and wandering from the beaten track, until the 
trees gathering more thickly, made a shadow like night 
come to the place where the leaves, descending to the 
very ground, formed an impenetrable barrier across 
your path — a wall of foliage and perfume ? Im- 
penetrable, and yet you pushed that wall aside, and 
stood in the shadow of an overhanging rock, from whose 
dark surface trickled a thousand little streams, uniting 
below, where the rock formed a basin, in the spring of 
cool, clear water, that lay like a mirror at your feet? 
Then, making a cup with the broad leaf of the chesnut 
tree, you bent down, and drank the wine of the living 
rocks, this clear, cold water, fresh from the caverns of 
mother earth. 

Still, your dream is here ! 

Or, wandering in the chambers of a mansion, that 
seemed deserted for ages — the ceiling veiled in cob- 
webs, the floors dark with dust, the trapestry eaten by 
moths — feel your heart grow cold, as your solitary 
footfall came back in a thousand echoes, and upstart- 
ing from some dark corner, a strange woman stood be- 
fore you, her beautiful form clad in black velvet, her 
eyes darting their deep light into your soul 1 

Still, here on the Wissahikon, you will find your 
dream ! 

Or, once more, — you seemed loitering along the 
shades of the forest-path ; you heard a voice, of vivid 
melody, thrilling like any forest-bird, its virgin song ; 
and following the sweet sound, you suddenly beheld 
an angel form, stepping from the she'ter of the trees, 
beautiful as Eve before she fell, and gliding inch, by 
inch, into the clear waves, her long hair floating over 
the ripples which dashed against her snow-white arms? 

Upon my word, your dream is here ! 

But suddenly, this vision of a winter night became 
wiluly changed. Blasts of organ-like music made by 
ths winds howling through caverns, broke awfully on 
your soul. Then the gust of a summer rain swept 
your cheek, every drop fragrant with perfume. You 
beheld the angel form of the young girl walk beside the 
dark woman, who led her to the verge of an awful cliff, 



smiling al! the while, as she pushed the virgin towards 
the abyss. Flowers and skulls, perfumes and horrors, 
blasts from the grave, and breezes of May, were min- 
gled in a strange — a grotesque panorama. And the 
last thing that you beheld, was a fair young face, sink- 
ing slowly into the waters of a fathomless abyss, her 
mild eye upraised, her soft voice whispering in prayer. 

With aery of horror, you awoke, wondering — as 
the damps of fear started from your flesh — whether, in 
all the world, there had ever happened any history, so 
full of strong contrasts, so much light, so much black- 
ness, as this, your dream of a winter night ? 

Believe me, you will find the dream living bodily, 
and throbbing tumultously, here on the Wissahikon ! 



Come with me into its shadows? 

Leaving the dusty road, we behold the dark grey 
walls of an ancient mill, with a world of leaves behind 
it. Drowsily turns the heavy wheel, scattering drops 
of light from its gloomy timbers; sleepily trickles th« 
water over beds of rocks: beautifully upon the mill 
and the rocks, the waters that are rushing there, and 
the leaves that accumulate yonifer, glows the last smile 
of the setting sun. 

The mill is passed : behold a narrow path, leading 
away into the trees, its brown sand contrasted with the 
grass on either side. Yonder glooms a huge rock ; we 
reach its foot, we see the trees towering far above us, 
clusters of foliage rising on clusters, until but a glimpse 
of the blue sky is seen. 

The walk is passed ; — is it a dream that breaks upon 
us 1 

Far, far away, extends a track of golden light, that 
shines until it fades. Look closer and in that track of 
light, you discover the Wissahikon, sunken deep, 
between two walls of leaves and rocks that start up- 
right from its very shores into the sky. And it flows 
silently* on, receiving on its bosom that last gush of 
light, which pours above these heights from the western 
sky. 

Yonder, the leaves descend to its waters, and embrace 
it, as though they would bury it from the light, in a 
veil of foliage. The vines bend over it, and scatter their 
blossoms upon its waves. The very path seems to love 
it, for descending from these rugged steeps, it leads along 
the shore, only separated by a line of sand and flowers 
from its waters. 

The stream narrows, the trees almost meet from 
opposite sides, when suddenly this wild enchantress. 



PROLOGUE. 



85 



the Indian maid, called Wissahikon, opens to us a 
prospect as strange as it is wildly beautiful. 

Stand with me, on this clump of green and shrubs, 
and behold it ! Yonder, on the left, a wall of rocks 
rises, in gloomy grandeur into the sky. The waters 
gush upon their feet, the pines — see them far over- 
head — crown their brows. Black and dismal, rocks 
heaped on rocks, cliff starting over cliff, this wall 
towers above us, its dark surface, here and there re- 
lieved by vines, or shadowed by trees, that grow 
between the clefts, their green branches shooting into 
light from every pile of granite. 

To the left, the woods ascend, in a rolling outline, 
like a wave of the ocean ; only for ripples, you have 
leaves ; for cheerless water, delicious foliage, wreathed 
with flowers. 

Directly in front, the narrow path leads up a steep 
hill. On the summit of that hill, a house of grey 
stone, encircled by a garden, a spring of cold water, 
gushing into an oaken trough, one solitary tree, bend- 
ing over the steep roof, and rising, alone — a pyramid 
of leaves — into the evening sky. 

The last ray of the sun is trembling on the top of that 
tree ! 

Between the hill covered by the house of dark stone, 
and this gloomy wall of cliffs, comes the Wissahikon, 
chafed into a rage by the rocks spread in her way, and 
writhing, on every wave, into a white foam, that looks 
like spring blossoms agitated by the wind. 

She came leaping over ihe rocks, filling the wild 
dell with the voice of her agony ; but the moment these 
rocks are past, she is calm again — she subsides into a 
gentle lake — she lovingly kisses the feet of the cliff, 
whispers in those caverns, and ripples her blessing to 
the flowers on yonder isle ! 

We ascend the hill, and lingering on its summit, 
taste the waters of the spring, as we gaze for the last 
time upon the setting sun. 

Then, into the shadows, along the wood that darkens, 
until we stand upon the rock, with the Wissahikon far 
beneath our feet. 

Look down ! 

Rushing from the north, her course is stayed by 
this dense mass of earth and trees and rocks. With a 
sudden movement, she wheels directly to the west, and 
hurries smilingly on. Look down ! How calm, how 
like the sinless sleep of Eve in Paradise, that water 
smiles as it rests in the embrace of its beloved trees ! 

Here the bank is steep and precipitous ; yonder the 



woods shelve down into a level point of land, which 
projects into the clear waves. So dense is the shade 
cast by the overhanging trees upon the dark, rich earth, 
that but a few scattered clumps of grass and flowers 
overspread its surface. Look down ! Around that 
point, beneath the trees that stretch out their arms as if 
they loved it, the Wissahikon ripples, smiles, and glides 
on without a sound. 

Look down, but do not let your gaze wander too 
long upon the clear deep waters. For there is a strange 
fascination in those waves that wiles you to their 
embrace, and makes you wish to bury life and its 
troubles among their ripples. 

To yonder rock, where the dark waters spread into 
a limpid sheet, not deeper than your ankle, at dead of 
night, when the moon shone out over the trees, there 
came a young girl, who silently bared her form, and 
laid herself to rest, upon the pebbled bed, with the cool 
waters dashing over her bosom. The night passed, 
and she slept on. The morning came, and they found 
her there, with head rising and falling with the gentle 
motion of the stream, her brown hair floating in the 
ripples, her white bosom now covered by the waves, 
now laid bare to the light. She slept well, upon the 
pebbled bed, rocked by the waters. No stain was on 
her name, no grief upon her heart. The aged man, 
her father, who lifted the corse from its watery cradle 
could not impute to her one guilty thought. 

Her attire was found upon yon rock ; her Bible and 
prayer book on the grass beside the stream. 

She had toiled three weary miles to die upon the 
bosom of the stream she loved so well. 

And when the old man laid her on the bank, there 
was a sad, sweet smile upon her face, as though some 
good angel had kissed her in her closing hour, and 
left a blessing on her lips. 

Along the northern path, with the stream roaring 
below us, we will hurry on. 

A beautiful oicture ! "T hat cluster of old cottages 
and barns, grouped beside the mill, with rocks frown- 
ing above, and a sea of foliage, swelling into the sky. 
In that cottage, Rittenhouse, the Philosopher, was born; 
between yonder rock and the buttonwood tree lies the 
space of earth which witnessed one of the darkest 
tragedies that ever froze the blood but to hear told 
again.* The blood of a father poured forth by the 
son, moistened that grassy sod. 

* See the Legend of the Parricide, page 98, of " Washington 
and his Generals," by George Lippard. 



86 PR0L 

Beside the mill, a mass of rocks chokes the course 
of Wissahikon. Above the wall of rocks, extending 
from the mill-wheel to the opposite shore, how calmly 
it glides on, its bosom shadowed by the trees that meet 
above its waveless waters ! Below, how it darkens, 
and boils, and foams, filling the air with its shout ! 

Let us enter the light canoe, and while the oar makes 
low music to the ripples, glide softly on ! Behind us 
pass the trees, still there are new groups ahead ! Be- 
hind us bloom the flowers, still new blossoms greet us 
as we go ! Behind us flashes the ripples, still before 
our canoe the stream extends, with foliage rising to the 
sky on either side. 

At last emerging from the thick shadow, we beheld 
a mound-like, covered by a strange edifice, built of 
stone, with steep roofs and many windows, and a 
garden blooming far down into the glen. 

That is the Monastery, in which the Monks of Wis- 
sahikon, long ago worshipped their God, without a 
creed. 

In this space, between the mill which we have left 
and the Monastery which rises before us, on the 
eastern banks of Wissahikon, behold a quiet cottage, 
smiling from among the forest trees. It is built in the 



space between two colossal rocks ; above it, far, far into 
the sky towers that wall of leaves ; from its narrow 
door to the water's edge a plot of levtl earth extends, 
green with moss and blooming wifh flowers. 

Even as an altar, on which the dearest hopes and 
fondest memories blossom, so from the forest out upon 
the waters, looks that Cottage Home of Wissahikon 

This was on the third of July, 1776. 

Now, the rocks are clad with wild vines ; the garden 
is a waste. Yet, searching among those vines, you 
may still discover the. traces of a wall, the scattered 
stones and broken roof tile of that forest home ! 

And the story of that home, the strange Legend of 
the wild Rose that bloomed there, which leads us into 
scenes of absorbing interests now unveiMng to our 
gaze, the Hall of Independence, crowded with the 
shadows of the past, now teading 'these shades and 
dells of Wissahikon, shall be inscribed with a name 
worthy of the purest page that ever kindled a generous 
emotion in the heart, or raised the soul with words of 
holy truth — 

TO 
* * * * 

THIS STORY OF THE PAST IS DEDICATED. 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776, 

OR 

THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



CHAPTER FIRST. 

OLD MICHAEL, THE HUNTER. 

A hale old man, leaning on his rifle, with an 
iron frame, a bronzed visage, and snow-white 
hair ! 

It was in the midst of the forest, where a 
huge oak tree, torn up by the roots, lay pros- 
trate on the sward, the brown earth yet fresh 
about its trunk, its leaves still blooming in 
summer green. 

He stands before us, that old man, an 
effective picture of a bold backwoodsman ; his 
^road chest and muscular arms displayed in 
their firm outlines by the folds of his blue 
hunting shirt, his limbs encased in buckskin 
leggings, moccasins on his feet, and a fur cap> 
green with a solitary oaken sprig, resting on 
his brow. 

The rifle on which he leans, long and dark 
and marked with scars, betrays the indications 
of thirty years' toil in the woods, and danger 
on the mountain path. 

Strung over his broad chest, a belt of dark 
leather sustains his shot pouch and powder 
horn. In the broad girdle, — a wampum belt, 
inscribed with the language of the red man — 
which encircles his waist, gathering in its con- 
fines the loose folds of his hunting shirt, a knife 
is placed, its handle of bone contrasting with 
the long and glittering blade. His face im- 
presses you at once with a picture of green old 
age. 

Bronzed by the winter wind and the summer 
sun, marked with the traces of many a deadly 
conflict, the hair blanched into snow by the 
touch of seventy years, it displays a prominent 
nose, a broad chin, high cheek bones, and a 
firm mouth, encircled by heavy wrinkles. In- 
deed, the whole visage is traversed by wrinkles 



that resemble threads of iron, in their strongly 
marked outlines. 

From the shadow of his thick grey eye- 
brows, the gleam of two clear eyes, undimmed 
by the frost of age, now blue, now grey in 
their liquid, breaks gently on you. Gently, and 
yet there are times when the light of those 
eyes remind you of a panther at bay, his blaz- 
ing orbs glaring from the darkness of a cavern. 

And the old man, this hermit of the woods, 
who speaks a plainer speech with his rifles than 
with his tongue, stands before us, on the 
sward ; the leaves spreading a weaving roof 
above him, the evening solitude of the woods 
extending on every side. 

He lifts his cap — fashioned of the wild 
beast's hide — and that solitary ray of sunlight 
wandering through the foliage, streams upon 
his white hair. 

By his side, reclining on the trunk of the 
prostrate oak, you behold a form whose every 
outline is strongly contrasted with the figure 
of the old backwoodsman. 

It is a young man in the vigor of early man- 
hood. His form, well-knit and muscular, yet 
delicate almost to womanly beauty, in its 
graceful outline, is attired in a costume of dark 
velvet — a coat reaching half-way to the knee, 
and girded to the waist by a belt of leather — 
boots of the same hue encase his limbs, and a 
white collar thrown open at the neck, displays 
the chiselled outline of his throat. 

Yet it is not upon the dark attire enveloping 
his agile form that you gaze, nor upon his 
beautiful rifle, whose dark tube is relieved by 
the mahogany stock, mounted in silver, nor 
does the powder horn, inlaid with golden 
flowers, nor the hunting knife, with its carved 
ivory handle attract your eye. 

(87—91) 



92 THE FOURTH O 

It is that face, with the black hair falling 
back from its brow along the neck, from under 
the wide shadow of a slouching hat ; it is that 
eye that seems to burn with light, as it rests 
upon you ; it is that olive cheek now redden- 
ing with emotion, now pale as marble ; it is 
that mouth, which wreathes in a smile, or 
curves in scorn, which now speaks in low 
tones, were music wins you, and again, utters 
its deep voice, that indicates a soul conscious 
of power ! 

It is upon that face, moulded, not with the 
regularity of an ancient statue, but with finn 
and characteristic outlines ; the face framed in 
the shadow of the hat of dark felt, with low 
crown and drooping brim, that you gaze, in 
the quiet evening hour. 

One limb crossed over the other, the right 
arm resting on the trunk of th fallen tree, the 
head downcast, and the dark eyes fixed upon 
the sward, the young man seemed absorbed in 
thought, while the old hunter stood erect by 
his side. 

After a pause that lasted some five minutes, 
the old man turned and gazed upon his young 
comrade. 

"It's queer — reg'lar queer !" he said, with 
a slight laugh, and then paused as if waiting 
for an answer. 

The young man was silent. 

"I say it's queer — it's particular strange 
— I mought say ridiculous! To think that 
you and I have been out in the woods, time 
off and on, for six months back, and yet nei- 
ther of us knows where the t'oiher lives, nor 
even his name !" 

" What need of a name?" said the young 
man, without raising his eyes from the ground 
— " we met last winter, among the wilds of 
the Susquehanna. We hunted together, 
shared the same rude meal, after our day's 
toil, and at night slept side by side, on a bed 
of withered leaves. You called me Walter — 
[ called you Michael. What need of other 
names ? We met and were friends !" 

Walter played listlessly with the handle of 
his knife, as he spoke. Still his eyes were 
fixed upon the sod. 

" But Walter, don't you know yer voice 
betrays you ? — Yer speech is not the speech 
of the backwoodsman, but the talk of the city 
and the village. Yer rifle and knife, aye yer 



F JULY, 1770 

dress itself, don't speak much for yer poverty. 
Yer hands are too white, yer skin too fair, to 
fancy for a minute that you've lived long in 
the woods. But, howsomever it is I c^n't 
tell, but I like ye, and have liked ye, since the 
day—" 

" When, away yonder on the Susquehanna, 
my rifle missed fire, and the panther sprang at 
my throat. Your aim was good, your eye 
true, or I should have been a dead man. 
Michael, you saved my life, and there's my 
hand!" 

The old hunter extended his horny palm, 
and grasped the delicate ringers of his young 
comrade, with an iron clutch. 

" A month ago we parted at least an hun- 
dred miles from this — to-day we meet again, 
here in the woods of Wissahikon — " 

Walter raised his full dark eyes. A strange 
smile passed over his face. 

"It would be interesting for us to compare 
our history for the past month," he said. 
" This is a quiet hour. The evening air is 
cool, delicious. These old woods make a man 
feel on better terms with himself and the world. 
And the sound of the waters, lulling gently on 
the ear, seem like the voices of other days, tell- 
ing of the joys, the sorrows, that are past and 
gone. Come, Michael, begin — tell us the 
history of your life for the past thirty days." 

The young man started, as he witnessed the 
strange effect of his words. Michael stood 
before him trembling, as with an ague chill, his 
sunburnt face writhing in every chord, while 
his eyes blazed with that panther glare, which 
made the heart beat quicker to behold. 

" Tell you the history of the past month ?" 
he said, in a voice and with a manner entirely 
different from his usual rough, backwoodsman 
way. " There are some things, young man, 
that draw the knife from the belt, and raise the 
rifle to the shoulder. Things that it wont do 
to talk about, not even in a whisper ! Deeds, 
aye, 1 say it, deeds that make the blood run 
cold. But," and he advanced a step, while 
that light blazed more fiercely from his eye, 
" what do you know of my history for the past 
month?" 

The young man started to his feet. He ex- 
tended his hand — 

" Nothing, Michael — not a word, not even 
a whisper," he said, examining the face of the 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



93 



old man with a searching glance. " I meant 
not to rouse one bitter memory in your heart. 
Come, sit down by me ; I will," and that 
strange smile passed over his face — "I will 
tell you the story of my life for the past thirty- 
days." 

The old man did not reply, but, taking the 
young man's hand within his own, he led him 
for some few paces alon^ the woods. 

"Look thar !" he said; in his usual rough 
voice, " thar is my home !" 

Far down the woods, through a vista that 
extended among the trunks of massive trees, 
the young man looked and saw a quiet cottage 
with a garden, blooming from its door to the 
verge of a calm, unruffled glimpse of water. 

The woods, through which he gazed, were 
wrapt in thick shadow ; but the roof of that 
cottage, resting between two rocks, gleamed 
brightly in the setting sun. Above it swelled 
the sea of forest leaves, below sparkled the still 
Wissahikon — it was like a picture framed in 
waving leaves and glancing waters. 

" Thar's my home!" 

" Your home !" echoed Walter, hiding his 
face in his hands, and turning away from the 
old man, while he shook with emotion. 

Michael gazed upon him with unfeigned 
surprise. 

" And ain't it a purty home ? Did you ever 
see a nicer bit of happiness hid away in the 
woods than that? O, if you could but see the 
angel that dwells thar with me, and keeps house 
when I am out among the woods, and puts her 
soft hands on my forehead, when the — aye, I 
must speak it — when the dark hour comes 
on me ; if you could but see her and know 
her you would worship her !" 

Walter raised his face. All traces of emo- 
tion had vanished, but he was very pale and 
his eyes shone with peculiar lustre. 

"That's your home !" he calmly said, 
" what a beautiful home it is ! " 

" Perhaps he has his memories, too!" the 
old hunter muttered, "God knows!" 

The young man took his hand, and whis- 
pered, " Michael look yonder ! " 

Michael gazed far down that vista, and 
among the huge forest trees, and with hushed 
breath beheld a sight as strange as it was beau- 
tiful. 

From the door of that cottage home came 



forth a young girl clad in a peasant garb — a 
light boddice, fitting close to her bosom, a dark 
skirt, flowing to her feet — with her brown 
hair blowing lightly about her face in the even- 
ing breeze. 

She tripped along the garden, and stood by 
the water's edge. 

Her eyes were cast down the stream, her 
bending form assumed an attitude of anxious 
expectation. 

Presently, gliding from the trees, a light ca- 
noe broke into view, and in it stood erect the 
form of a woman, attired in a dark robe, with 
her face glowing in the warm light of the fading 
day. 

She leapt lightly on the shore — the young 
girl seemed to start with surprise, but this wo- 
man in the dark attire seized her hands and 
urged her. gently into the cottage. 

They disappeared together, and the closing 
doors concealed them from the view. 

Had Michael and his young comrade beheld 
the scene, which then transpired within the 
cottage home, they would have felt their hearts 
beat quicker, their blood bound, like liquid fire, 
through their veins ! 

But they did not witness that scene; they 
only saw the young girl, and the dark-robed 
woman, go in the cottage door together. 

For a moment Michael and his comrade 
stood in silence, gazing in each other's faces, 
as though spell-bound by that sight. 

" That's strange ! " at last the old man said, 
— "Who the lady in the dark dress can be is 
more than I can tell ! I never knew before that 
the child was acquainted with anybody in the 
world, save me! Ah, now I think of it, that 
visiter is the rich widow who resides in the 
large mansion on t'other side of the Wissa- 
hikon ! But how came she to know my child ?" 

" She is your child 1 " cried Walter in a 
hurried tone — " your daughter ? " 

" My Daughter ? Hah ! What do you 
mean ? My Daughter !" 

You can see the old man's cheek assume the 
hue of ashes, his lip is livid and his eyes are 
fixed upon the ground. 

" Young man, you have touched the bitter 
chord agin ! Don't you know that it's better 
to cut one's heart with your knife, than to do it 
with a word ?" 

" Pardon Michael, pardon ! I have known 



94 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776, 



you hitherto hut as the rough child of the for- 
est. Now, that I behold in you the owner 
of this beautiful home, the father of this — " 

"Father?" hurriedly interrupted old Mi- 
chael. 

" Who told you I was father to that an- 
gel girl ? Sixteen years ago I brought her to 
to that place, an innocent and smiling babe ! — 
Sixteen years ago I built that home ! For six- 
teen years she has grown up in solitude, and 
every hour of those years grown deeper into 
my heart ! Yes, it is sixteen years and one 
month, since that night. " 

Again the old man paused, his countenance 
betraying the traces of mental agony. While 
Walter, leaning his noble form against yonder 
tree, with his head downcast, gazed fixedly in 
the face of his comrade, you see that aged com- 
rade clutch his rifle with quivering fingers, 
dash the stock into the earth, and then pace 
wildly to and fro. 

Again he spoke in that tone so different 
from his rough backwoodsman voice. He 
fipoke not as much to Walter, as to his own 
soul, not so much with the consciousness of 
a human eye gazing upon his face, as the 
Eye of God reading his soul. 

What — what have I not done to wash out 
the memory of that night ! O, it was pitiful, 
— it was horrible! Satan himself could not 
have painted so dark a picture, nor planned so 
accursed a deed! A home in flames — two 
dead bodies thrown beside the hearth, a husband 
and his wife ! Both young — one noble in his 
manly vigor, the other beautiful in her wo- 
manly purity ! And beside the body of the 
dead husband a little boy stood weeping ; 
over the cold bosom of the dead wife a baby 
crept, pressing its lips to that font which 
was dried forever! And the wretch who led 
on the midnight assassins, who leagued with 
red savages and white robbers, came, at dead 
of night, to lay this home in ashes, came 
with his face blackened, the torch in one hand, 
the knife in the other. Who was he ? A. 
fiend ? No, a Brother ! " 

He stood, with his outstretched hands, quiv- 
ering in every finger, his eyes glaring in the 
sod. The white foam frothed about his livid 
lips. 

Walter stood appalled by the violence of the 
old man's emotion. 



You may behold him, leaning against yonder 
tree, his face manifesting in every outline, sur- 
prise mingled with horror. 

"That house, blackened and in ruins, lies 
two hundred miles away in a green valley of 
the Alleghanies. It stands there as it stood for 
years, a black witness of unnatural guilt. On 
i's hearthstone the blood has never faded ; from 
its walls the ghosts of the dead have never 
gone — no, not for an hour! And to that 
ruined house, once every year — in June, when 
the trees are in blossom, in June, when 
the murder was done — there comes the form 
of the murderer to gaze upon the traces of his 
crimes. For one month, day and night, he 
crouches down upon the hearthstone, gazing 
upon that mark of blood, that hideous blotch 
of red that glares in his face, as though it had 
a thousand eyes, all fired by the same curse ! 

" For sixteen years, on the return of June, 
the murderer has been dragged by invisible 
bands over mountain and flood to that blasted 
house ! For sixteen years he has been forced 
by voices that speak from the air, and speak to 
his heart, like the anathema of the archangel, 
to write a confession of his crime, and place it 
in the dead woman's grave ! Sixteen confes- 
sions are there ; sixteen records of that bloody 
deed !" 

His look was terrible, as towering erect, he 
shook his clenched hands in the air, while his 
eyes rolled and his mouth frothed around the 
writhing lips with scattered drops of foam and 
blood. 

" Who says that repentance can wash out 
crime ? You may forsake the world, bury 
yourself from human eyes, throw wealth and 
rank to the winds, put on humble attire and 
pray all day in the woods, and groan all night 
in the desert where no eye but the eye of God 
can hear, and still the faces of the murdered 
will never cease to glare at you, and move 
their lips as though they would speak but 
could not ! You may take the child from the 
breast of the mother, bear it away from the 
scene of crime, rear it up to womanhood in 
purity and virtue, and yet the child will onp 
day learn your crime — that child will live to 
curse the man whom it has called father, and 
hiss in his ears the words : " Thou didst it 
on a dark night! Thou didst it when all 
was still ! Thou didst it when husband a^d 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



95 



ivife lay wrapped in each other 1 s arms! 
Then thou didst murder *my Mother ! " 

That frenzied voice sank into an accent of 
overwhelming agony. 

"To be cursed by her — to be cursed by — 
Rose !" 

You may have seen a huge rock, precipi- 
tated from an immense height upon the void 
below. Descending in a straight line, it strikes 
a lofty tree, and ere you can draw another 
breath, crushes it, from the top to the roots, 
into one mass of ruins. 

As though he had been that tree, as though 
the fallen rock had, in its dread career, taken 
life and plunged upon his skull, the old man, 
Michael, rushed to the earth ; so sudden was 
his fall, so stiffened and lifeless upon the sod 
he lay. 

Walter knelt beside him. He gazed upon 
the pale features and glassy eyeballs, in si- 
lence. The emotion which had but a moment 
ago shaken the old man's frame, seemed 
now to have passed into the veins of his com- 
rade, for every feature of his face was in mo- 
tion ; with his hand pressed nervously 
against his forehead, he gazed into the coun- 
tenance of the insensible man. 

The sun had gone down, and the shadows, 
cast by the trees, in long columns of darkness, 
began to grow wider and deeper. The forest 
was still as a deserted cathedral. Not the 
sound of distant water, nor the rustling of the 
wind among the trees, disturbed the brooding 
silence of the Wissahikon woods. 

And let me tell you, to be among those 
woods when that silence so awfully spiritual 
pervades the air, while the foliage, spreading 
around, makes noonday seem like twilight, is 
to feel your soul grow nearer to the other world. 
Then, your heart feels sad, you know not 
why. Then the memories of your past life, 
rush upon you. Then through the long ar- f 
cades and bowery glades, half-closing your 
eyes, you seem to behold the forms of beloved 
ones, long since dead, gliding slowly to and fro. 

TV alter — this young man, whom we have 
known by that name — with an eye, always 
gleaming brighter in time of danger; a heart, 
that throbbed tumultuously with passion, or 
fired with the love of the beautiful and holy ; 
a soul, ever swayed by impulse, capable at 
once of the highest heroism and the purest self- 



denial, felt the influence of this evening hour. 

His thoughts were dark to agony ! 

We dare not picture their nature ; but, as he 
bent over the insensible man, he seemed to be- 
hold two faces, gliding along the twilight sky, 
with wreaths of mists about their clearly de- 
fined outlines. 

One, the face of a sinless girl, whose young 
face and tranquil eyes seemed to woo him from 
the world and its cares and fears, into these 
dear solitudes of Wissahikon. The love of 
that maiden face was stainless ; the passion of 
those clear deep eyes undimned by the mists 
of sensual feeling. 

The other, the face of matured loveliness, 
with ambition gleaming from those dark eyes, 
the love of the world and the world's feverish 
joys burning in the vermillion glow of each 
olive cheek. That high brow, that dark hair, 
floating in showers of glossy blackness over 
the half-bared bosom, that red lip, curling with 
scorn, or parting with passion, completed the 
picture of this strange, yes — the terrible face. 

" One woos me to the shadows of the quiet 
woods, and asks of me a love as virgin as 
these solitudes ! The other plunges me into 
the tumults of the world, bids me grapple with 
the weapons of ambition, and share the throb- 
bings of a love that beats with the madness of 
fever and wine! His daughter! She, so 
proud, so distant, whom I have only seen afar 
off, and by glimpses ; she seeks the presence 
of the peasant maid ! What can it portend T" 

As he kneels there, absorbed in his thoughts, 
a singular incident occurs. 

Do you see that strange form, with long and 
matted hair descending to the broad shoulders, 
and folds of crape veiling the face, move noise- 
lessly from tree to tree ? 

As you look, it crouches on the ground — 
and crawls, snake-like, along the sod; — it 
reaches the fallen trunk, against which the sil- 
ver mounted rifle leans. Beware, Walter, for 
there is treachery in the soundless movements 
of that uncouth shape ! But he does not see 
it ; no, he does not behold his rifle grasped by 
those brawny hands, the pan unclosed, and 
the priming blown from beneath the flint. 

In a moment the rifle is replaced, and the 
form of this unknown enemy moves noiselessly 
away. 

Still Walter knelt beside the form of the in- 



96 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776, 



sensible man ; still the vision of those two faces 
occupied his soul. 

As his thoughts thus rose in singular confu- 
sion to his lips, he was roused from his reve- 
rie by a distant sound, resembling the cry of 
fear or agony. It rose, it swelled, it came 
through the silence of the woods like the voice 
of a spirit. Walter felt a shudder pervade his 
frame. There was something almost super- 
natural in this sudden cry, breaking so abruptly 
on the death-like silence of the woods. 

He started to his feet, and grasped his rifle ! 
Again that cry ! 

With a bound he hurried up the ascent of 
the steep, covered by those huge old forest trees. 
That cry seemed ringing like a knell of death 
in his ears. The trees, the rocks, a long slope 
of level sward, flew behind him ; and his 
course was presently interrupted by the boughs 
of a beachen tree, which descending to the 
very sod, formed a wall of green leaves across 
his path. 

Again that cry ! Not ten feet distant it was 
heard. Walter plunged through the foliage of 
the beache 1 tree, and started back with a sud- 
den bound, as he beheld a spectacle that made 
his heart beat as with pulsations of flame. 

A beautiful woman, kneeling on the sod, her 
bosom bared, her long hair falling to her shoul- 
ders, with hands and eyes upraised, in a trem- 
bling gesture of prayer ! 

Above her — standing with his back to the 
sun — you see the figure of a thick-set and 
muscular man, who lifts a rifle above the head 
of the kneeling woman. As he turns toward 
the li^ht, you see his face, covered 
with folds of crape, while from beneath his 
rough cap of fur, long locks of draggled hair 
wave in the light. Altogether, as he stands 
there, he looks the bravo and outcast, fitted 
by a dark experience for any deed of crime. 

"Your gold; — come, no delay! Thern 
ear-rings, and that jewel on yer bosom ! Come, i 
I say ! H 

The rifle, grasped by the barrel, like a huge 
club, rose above the kneeling woman's head. 

At this moment, Walter sprang from the 
foliage and confronted the ruffian. 

"Back !" he cried, and levelled his rifle. 

The Outcast only rested the stock of his 
rifle on the sod, and a low laugh came from 
the folds of crape which enveloped his face. | 



" Fire ! " he said, with that low, growlinp 
sound of laughter. 

From yon aperture among the trees, the last 
glow of the western sky gives a purple Hghl 
to the scene. You see that craped face, 
framed in its bushy locks of hair, that thick- 
set form, with the right arm wound round the 
barrel of the rifle. Walter starting forward, 
his rifle raised to his" eye, his manly form dis- 
closed in all its delicacy of outline by the dress 
of dark velvet, relieved by the green of the 
trees. Between these figures, the form of the 
kneeling woman, her beautiful countenance 
pale with suspense, her bared bosom throbbing 
with quivering emotion. In the tranquil light 
of this still hour, hei dark hair, showering so 
freely over the white shoulders, assumed the 
purple tint of the twilight. 

"Fire!" cried the Outcast ; and again that 
laugh broke on the air. 

Walter applied his finger to the trigger — 
there was a harsh, jarring sound, but no flash 
in the pan — no report from the tube. 

" Ha, ha, ha ! That for your rifle ! " And, 
with the celerity of a lightning flash, he seized 
the jewelled chain from the neck of the lady, 
and stood erect, calmly leaning on his rifle. 

Walter at a moment's glance, saw that he 
must prepare for a desperate conflict. Dashing 
his rifle on the sod, he drew his hunting-knife, 
and advanced upon the bravo. 

"Come," he growled, "I'll tame your 
blood ! " and, without moving an inch from 
his position, seemed about to spring on his 
antagonist, like a rattlesnake on the unsuspect- 
ing victim. 

He raised his arm to strike that unknown 
man, but the kneeling woman bounding from 
the sod, flung her arms about his neck. " Save 
me ! " she cried, and lay fainting on his 
breast. Her long hair streaming over his face, 
for a moment blinded his vision; with a sud- 
i den movement, he swept aside those silken 
tresses. 

The bravo, the Outcast, was gone ! 
But there, in the arms of Walter, the hunter, 
in this deep evening hour, lay the form of a 
beautiful woman, whose matured loveliness 
was enveloped in a close-fitting habit; whose 
bosom, lately heaving with emotion, now !ay 
white and pulseless beneath his gaze ; whose 
I arms, round and full, were wound about his 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



97 



neck, while her dark hair streamed in glossy 
masses over his shoulders. 

A wildly beautiful woman ; a voluptuous 
organization ; a face, rich olive in hue, with 
the lids closed and the lashes resting on the 
cheek, displaying in its calm forehead, marked 
brows, and firm lips, the traces of a bold and 
ambitious nature ! 

" It is the vision which for a month past has, 
day after day, flitted across my gaze, from the 
far distance!" he said, and felt his temple 
burn, his veins swell as with liquid flame. 

Wishing to gaze yet more clearly on that 
beautiful face, he turned toward the western sky. 

As he turns — but no! it is a fancy, a 
dream! — the fainting woman uncloses her 
eyes, while a smile of triumph wreaths her 
proud lips. It is for a moment only. When 
Walter looks again, the lips are smileless, the 
eyes closed as if in death. 

Walter gazed, for a few moments, upon that 
face motionless as marble, while his very soul 
seemed lost in the vortex of a whirlpool. His 
eyes swam, his temples throbbed, he could 
feel his heart beat against his bosom. 

At last a soft flush pervaded her olive cheek ; 
her lids were slowly raised, the full blaze of 
her dark eyes rested upon Walter's face. 

With a bound, she sprang from his arms ; 
even in the dim shadowy light of that hour, 
Walter beheld the rich blushes ripen over her 
face and bosom. 

"Thanks, good sir — you have saved, per- 
chance, my life," she said, in her musical 
voice, yet with a manner of calm dignity. 

Walter beheld her standing in the centre of 
that forest bower, and as the light of her eyes, 
the expression of her commanding face, dawned 
upon him, through the gathering gloom, he 
started with surprise. For a month or more, 
this strange woman, seen through the vistas of 
the forest from afar, had filled him with a 
bewildering interest. Now he beheld her face, 
he felt the light of those eyes which flashed 
with all the consciousness of intellectual and 
voluptuous power. 

"Lady Marion!" he exclaimed. "We 
have met before ! In the Court of St. James, 
surrounded by a circle of admirers, glittering 
with stars and coronets, I last beheld you. 
Now, in this lone forest " 

"Ah! I remember well your face, though I 



never knew you to converse with you. Your 
name was whispered among the courtiers — 
indeed, the King himself stated that wealth and 
chivalry had not often found a nobler represen- 
tative than Reginald — " 

" No names, lady ! " And Walter bowed 
low as he spoke. "In the forest, ha, ha! we 
are but plain man and woman, you will be 
pleased to remember !" 

" Did you not first set the example? 'Lady 
Marion,' indeed ! Doubtless you wonder to 
find me here, in this wild place. I frankly 
confess that you are the last person I should 
have expected to behold — shall I say hoped? 
— here in the woods of the Wissahikon ! 

She advanced, and, with that smile playing 
over her face — oh! you should have seen its 
strange, mysterious fascination ! — she lightly 
laid her hand upon his arm. Walter started, 
for her touch penetrated his veins like electric 
fire. 

"Would you know my mission, in these 
dark, wild woods ? Would you solve the 
mysteries, not only of a poor, weak woman's 
life, but of government and war — -would you 
achieve the freedom of your native land — the 
deliverance of the soil from the clouds which 
overshadow it ? Come, then, to-night, at the 
hour of ten, to yonder house, on the opposite 
shore of Wissahikon !" 

" I will !" said Walter, scarce knowing 
what he spoke. 

There was the sound of a heavy footstep, 
and Michael — whom we left insensibh upon 
the sod — advanced from the shelter of the 
leaves. 

" Brave soldier, I have sought for you, 
through the woods, and your home!" cried 
Lady Marion, confronting the aged hunter, 
who stood surprised at her address, and yet 
impressed, he scarce knew why, by the sound 
of that low musical voice. 

" You fought in Braddock's war., under 
Washington ?" 

" I did ! " 

" You would serve Washington ? Rescue 
him from the perils that beset him ; from the 
plots of his enemies ?" 

" With my life l n 

And the old hunter brought his rifle down 
on the sod, by way of emphasis. 

" Come with me, then, to my mansion on 



93 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776, 



yonder hill ! These are strange times, when 
a woman must forget the modesty of her sex, 
in the service of her country ; when the old 
man must feel his withered arm grow strong 
again, to defend that country ! Come !** 

Even the old hunter, whom we have lately 
seen writhing in convulsions — the fierce 
struggle of bodily or mental disease — felt the 
magic of that woman's look and voice. 

" I'm with you !" he said ; " Washington ! 
Is he in danger? I saw the bullets rattle 
against the blade of his sword, on the day of 
Braddock's defeat — I'll try to keep them from 
his heart, now that his enemies encompass 
him ! But first, young man " — he turned to 
Walter, and whispered in his ear — " You 
saw me in that fit, — just now ? Eh, comrade ? 
Notice anything particular ? I'm apt to say 
queer things — you overheard, we — " 

He paused, while his eyes flashed deadly 
light ; he paused, hesitated, as though he wished 
Walter to complete the sentence. 

" Pardon me, Michael, if I left you for an 
instant!" the young man answered, in an even 
voice, and with a composed manner — "This 
lady was in danger, or I would not have for- 
saken you, in such a moment." 

" So you overheard nothing, eh ? But come, 
Walter, I like you, and have liked you, ever . 
since the day when I saved your life. I have 
a daughter — you understand an old man's 
feelings. I may die suddenly, some day ; be 
picked off by a bullet, or fall from a cliff. 
This child must not be left to the mercy of a 
heartless world ' Join hands with me, and 
swear before the God who sees and will judge 
— swear to protect my child !" 

Walter turned his face away from the faint 
glow of light which shone from the western 
sky, and extended his hand. 

" Your hand trembles !" whispered the old 
hunter. 

" Still, I swear !" 

" You swear to protect my child, even 
Rose, not only from the touch of harm, but 
from the wiles of the seducer, the arts of tiie 
libertine! Ah! why does your hand shrink 
from my grasp ? Why do you turn away ? 
Can it be, that I have been mistaken in you ? 
Are you afraid to act the part of a brother to 
the young and helpless ^ri rl ?" 

Walter stood in the shadows, his face buried 



in his hands. Well for him that it was so 
dark, that forest bower ! Well for him that 
the keen eye of the old man could not read the 
agony of his face ! 

But the woman who stands in the back- 
ground, her bosom swelling beneath her robe, 
her finger to her lip, her eyes glancing trium- 
phant fire — what means her agitation ? 

"I have been mistaken — you are not a 
man of courage !" said the old man, turning 
away. 

Walter sprang forward and grasped his hand. 

" Pardon me ! It was but a bitter memory 
of a sad story 1 once heard, that caused this 
apparent reluctance ! Your hand ! I swear 
to protect your daughter — even Rose — from 
the touch of harm, from the wiles of the sedu- 
cer, the arts of the libertine !" 

And while the old man grasped the hand of 
this unknown comrade, whom w r e have heard 
addressed by the names of Walter and Regi- 
nald, there, half buried in the shadows, stood 
the Lady Marion, her face overspread with 
smiles, the light of a strange passion flashing 
from her eyes ! 

CHAPTER SECOND. 

ROSE. 

The moon, rising over yonder precipitous 
ascent of woods, shines down upon the cottage 
home of Michael, the hunter. 

So, perchance, a thousand years ago she 
shone, when these trees encircled mansions of 
marble ; when the banners of a strange and 
forgotten people fluttered in a summer air, as 
bland as the breeze which now makes music 
among the leaves ; when, beside these waters, 
grouped the Priests and the white-robed maid, 
ens, swelling into the deep vault of heaven, 
their sacrificial song ! 

Walter advanced from the shadows of the 
trees, and s<ood upon a rock that towers there 
at this hour ; his dark attire and pale face, dis_ 
closed in the light of the rising moon. You 
see his face upraised, its pale hue giving unna- 
tural radiance to bis clear dark eye ; you per- 
ceive the traces of tears upon that bold cheek, 
and yet the resolve of a strong will speaks in 
that firm mouth and rounded chin. 

It was a very beautiful sight that he saw, by 
the pale light of the moon. Not a palace of 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



99 



white marble, nor yet one of those red brick 
mansions which freeze the soul out of you, 
with their bright pink walls and green window- 
shutters ; but a little structure of wood and 
stone, nestling between two huge rocks. How 
the vines waved and the flowers bloomed upon 
those grey old piles of granite ! It was but a 
little structure, with a single window, and a 
steep roof that sheltered from the sun and rain 
three little rooms; but, for all that, it was a 
"home." 

A home, with trees on trees around, above 
it ; a home, with a still stream flowing gently 
by ; a home, with a garden spreading from its 
door down to the water's edge; a home, with 
roof of boards and straw, hidden by leaves and 
fragrant with honeysuckles ; a home, containing 
a treasure more precious than the gold of Mex- 
ico, or the diamonds of Hindoostan ! 

That treasure — an immortal soul — locked 
up within the body of a beautiful and sinless 
girl ! 

Walter stood gazing upon it, wrapped in his 
thoughts, when a footstep resounded by his 
side. 

He turned, and beheld the form of a negro, 
his white eyeballs and ivory teeth shining from 
a face as black as ink and glossy as silk. He 
stood there, six feet high in his boots, his 
broad chest enveloped in a green coat, faced 
with gold ; his thick wool surmounted by a cap 
of dark fur ; his limbs encased in long boots, 
that shone like mirrors. Altogether, he was as 
fine a specimen of the African, with his flat 
nose, big lips, and protruding eyes, as you 
might see in any court of justice, on the occa- 
sion of the trial of a fugitive slave. It may 
also be remarked, that the muzzles of two sil- 
ver mounted pistols protruded from the breast 
of his dark green coat. 

" I is here, Massa !" said the dark gentle- 
man, with a bow that would have done honor 
to a courtier of Versailles. 

" Ah ! is that you, Bram ?" 

" It am de rale nigga Massa"! 

"Is everything ready ? You remember my 
orders ! First, the Purple Chamber, in my 
city mansion, was to be prepared for my recep- 
tion : — have you obeyed my commands ?" 

" Y-e-s, Massa !" 

' At twelve o'clock to-night, the carriage is 
to be waiting, in the narrow lane, beyond the 



Wissahikon, about half a mile from this place." 
" It will be dar !" 

" Bram, you must not express any surprise 
in case a young gentleman, somewhat slender 
in form, and clad in a plain dark dress, should 
appear at twelve to-night, and enter the 
carriage! The moment he enters, you .will 
drive with all speed to the city, and lead this 
young gentleman up stairs into the Purple 
Chamber." 

" Dis nigga nebbaw fails to do dat which 
Massa commands. No, he does not, dat he 
don't!" 

" The young gentleman will be known to 
you, not so much by his dress, as by the white 
scarf which binds his eyes — " 

" De grashus goodness ! Blinefold, eh ? 
Bress a poor darkey's stars ! Dat reminds me 
of Paris. A berry fine place is Paris, only 
dem folks do talk so partiklar queer. And 
den dey aint got no common sense ! Laws ! 
dey treats a dark brown colored gemman just 
like a white person, widout de 'propriate dis- 
tinction ob color ! " 

" You have heard my commands. Remem- 
ber, the happiness — perchance, the life — of 
your master depends upon the manner in 
which you follow them. Go !" 

Without a word the liveried negro disap- 
peared, and was lost to view among the trees. 

We will now watch the movements of Walter 
with peculiar interest. 

Descending from the rock, he draws forth 
from among the bushes, which dip from the 
bank into the waves, an Indian canoe, hewn 
by the hands of old Michael from the trunk of 
a massive tree. 

You see him enter the canoe ; he stands 
erect, in the light of the moon, his pale face 
betraying unequivocal signs of emotion. One 
movement of the slender oar, and the fragile 
barge glides noiselessly over the waters, and 
rests beside the opposite shore. 

Walter leaps upon the bank. He stands in 
the garden, which blooms along the level 
space. He listens ! All is still ; the clear 
moonlight falls upon the latticed window of 
the cottage, but reveals no traces of the pre- 
sence of any human thing within its walls. 

He advances toward the door, his heart 
beating quicker, his strong frame trembling in 
every nerve. Still no sound ! 



100 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 



1776. 



His hand is upon the wooden latch — for 
a moment he pauses in painful suspense — he 
crosses the threshold of that home. 

All is silent there. Through the small win- 
dow, a belt of moonlight falls along the outer 
floor. All beside is dark. 

Through that darkened room, Walter moves 
with noiseless footsteps and extended hands. 

A sob, low and gushing, as if arising from 
the heart, disturbs the silence. At the same 
moment, his hand touches a woman's cheek, 
and feels her tears. 

"Rose!" 

All is dark ; he cannot see her, yet a small 
hand is laid within his own, and a face is 
pressed against his bosom. 

" You are unhappy ! You weep " 

There was no reply; not in words, yet 
the hand that was pressed within his own — 
the young face, resting on his bosom — spoke 
that universal language which Love first 
learned in Paradise. 

In a moment, Walter gently disengaged her 
arm from his neck, hurried into the next cham- 
ber, and returned, bearing a light in his hands. 

Then it might be seen that the Rose of 
Wissahikon was transcendantly beautiful ! 

She bloomed in one corner of the small 
room, her form resting upon a huge old arm- 
chair, fashioned of solid oak. Her cheek 
upon her hand ; her eyes upraised, she shone 
through the chamber like an angel presence. 

Yon would pardon this extravagance of 
speech, had you but for a moment seen her 
in her virgin beauty. 

True, the dress which enveloped her young 
form, was of the plainest and coarsest material ; 
true, her foot was encased in a rude shoe, 
made of rough buckskin ; true, her bosom was 
veiled by a plain white kerchief, and yet, for 
all her simole dress, her beauty shone out and 
lighted that small chamber of the forest home. 

That foot, seen below the coarse skirt, was 
so small ; that bosom, heaving beneath the 
white kerchief, so round and full ; those arms, 
bare from the shoulder, so like arms of alabas- 
ter, rounded by the chisel of an inspired 
sculptor, veined by delicate threads of azure, 
softened by a flush like the first glow of a 
summer morn ; that face, so fair in its hue, so 
warm in the lips, so brilliant in the eyes, so 



beautifully relieved by the rich mass of dark 
brown hair ! 

Her eyes were neither blue, nor hazel, nor 
black. Now dark, now bright, now slowly 
lighting up with emotion ; now flashing into 
sudden radiance ; now gleaming dimly through 
the half-closed lids ; now overspread with 
moisture — even as the stars look more beau- 
tiful through the tears of an April shower ; 
those eyes, always in every phase of expres- 
sion, sent their rays home to the heart ! 

The hair was brown, and yet, in one light, 
it was black as the deep vault of a midnight 
sky ; in another, purple as the last kiss of day 
upon the western horizon. The word auburn, 
expressing that delicious combination of colors 
which imparts such divine beauty to the hair 
of a lovely woman, comes nearer the truth. 

Her eyes full of clear, deep light : her skin 
white as marble, with the young blood speak- 
ing out in each cheek ; her hair auburn in hue 
and plainly gathered back from her face — just 
as the painters have pictured our Mother Mary, 
so bloomed this young girl in that cottage 
chamber. 

Her hair was bound in a coil at the back of 
her head, and yet the band which clasped it, 
once untied, it covered her — the neck, the bo- 
som and the form, which would have been 
voluptuous, had not the eyes been so pure — 
it covered her like a veil, that beautiful flowing 
hair. 

Walter stood on the threshold, surveying in 
silent admiration this lovely girl. The same 
light that reveals his form, clad in a hunting 
garb of dark velvet, shines upon the young 
maiden with the light kerchief around her neck, 
the dark skirt upon her form. 

Her eyes, dim with tears, encountered his 
earnest gaze. 

Shall we translate the thought which gave 
such a deep melancholy to his face ? 

" A miracle ? This young and beautiful 
girl reared alone in these woods from her ear- 
liest infancy ! her only companion an old man, 
who is now rough as any forester in his speech, 
and again in the very writhings of remorse be- 
trays the eloquence of the forum, the refinement 
ol courtly life ! Reared alone — a beautiful 
flower blooming in the desert — the light of 
genius shines from the eyes, the glow of edu- 




7 



(101) 



OR THE DECLARATIO 

ration warms her face. That hand can fill the 
canvass with flowers and forms as beautiful as 
tnose seen in a midsummer dream — or 
pour forth, on paper, thoughts that indicate at 
on^e the tenderness of woman, the power 
of genius ! And yet she knows the world, 
from books alone — its cares, its customs are 
to her but the dim phantoms of a day-break 
dream. 

So ran his thoughts, but before him ever rose 
one question that poisoned the serenity of his 
soul : — " Is yours the hand to tear from the 
vase, in whichit blooms, this flower, so pure, 
so virgin? Is yours the heart to plan the 
shame of that chaste being, the dishonor of 
that maiden soul? " 

44 Rose," he said aloud, advancing to the 
maiden, " to-night you will leave your home. 
All is arranged. To-night you will link your 
fate with mine ! Why do you weep ? Is it 
because you dread the coming of that hour, 
when gathering you to my heart, I shall whis- 
per : Rose, you are mineV 

She slowly arose from the chair, and laid 
her hands upon his arms. 

" But a month since we met, and I am about 
to leave father and home for you ! Only a few 
short weeks ago I beheld you, for the first time, 
standing at the banks of the Wissahikon, and 
now, for you, Arthur — for you, I am about 
to leave this dear home for ever !" 

The language, which spoke from her up- 
raised eyes, was an hundred times more 
powerful than her words. 

Walter, Reginald, Arthur ? At all events, 
the young hunter is rich in names. 

" But. the Home, to which I will lead you, 
Rose—" 

" A cottage like this, in a dear, secluded val- 
ley, with such green woods above us, such 
a quiet stream rippling by the door ! Say, is't 
not so, Arthur ? You wish a home like this ? 
There we will dwell together, and after your 
day's toil in the woods — for you are but a 
poor hunter, Arthur — we will sit together by 
the fireside of home, our faces glowing in the 
same hallowed light !" 

Arthur smiled, perchance, at the earnestness 
of her eyes, the simple pathos of her voice. 

" The Purple Chamber !" he murmured, 
and bent V : s eyes upon her glowing face. 



N AND THE SIGNERS. 103 

** But my father, Arthur! he will come and 
visit us. Ah, why must we meet without his 
knowledge — why this secresy ? This mys- 
tery." 

She buried her face upon his breast, and as 
he looked down upon her glossy tresses, a dark 
and ominous frown, gathered upon his brow. 
Ah, Walter, Reginald, Arthur, what means 
that frown ? Does the thought of your secret 
meetings, for this month past — that history 
which you were about to tell old Michael, the 
hunter — cross your soul 1 And now, old 
Michael, and the father of this girl, are one, 
and you dare not breathe the knowledge of 
this fact to the maid, who throbs upon your 
bosom, her heart pulsating with a holy, a vir- 
gin love ? 

Remember your Oath! 

" But why need we leave Wissahikon ?" 
she cried with a radiant smile upon her face i 
" Wny leave this place, where the dawn is so 
lovely, the noon-day so serene, the twilight so 
holy ? Not a path, in these dear woods, but 
we have trod together — I clad in the hunter's 
dress, which you brought me — while you 
with your rifle to your shoulder, pointed out 
each beautiful view ; here, a delightful glimpse 
of water ; there, a cool cascade dashing over 
grey rocks, or, far away, the Wissahikon, shi 
ning like a golden track of light in the setting 
sun ! And those beautiful bowers in the forest, 
Arthur, where there are vines blooming with 
honeysuckles, and lillies wreathing their white 
cups with the leaves of the rose, and the air 
breathe perfume, and the lull of the distant 
stream comes on the air like sweet music from 
Heaven ! O, 1 have passed such happy years 
in this dear solitude — my father so kind, so 
good ! Yes, kind, for all he leaves me alone 
for a month, every year ; good for all that he 
mutters to himself and writhes in agony in the 
long hours of the night, and wanders out in the 
storm, his head and. breast bared to the blast ! 
And we must leave it all, Arthur, to-night, we 
must say to all that is beautiful here, Farewell !" 

She stood in her blushing beauty before her 
lever, in that plain room. The sanded floor : 
the white-washed walls, adorned with the 
works of her pencil ; the grotesquely carved 
table, on which her books — her Bible among 
the rest — were placed ; the hearth, now 



104 THE FOURTH 

wreathed with roses and laurel ; the low ceil- 
ing, supported by heavy rafters — such were 
the details of the picture. 

In the centre stood the tall form of the lover, 
his dark dress imparting additional paleness to 
his face ; his right arm holding the light above 
his head, and before him her eyes upraised, 
her heart beating warmly beneath her kerchief, 
the young girl blushed like a rose, trembling 
on its stem to a gentle breeze. 

" Do you love me ?" he said, bending upon 
her face the full light of his eyes. 

You should have seen her clear skin slowly 
ripening from her bosom to the brow, from the 
shoulders to the fingers, in all the crimson of 
her -virgin blood ! What woman ever lived, 
who could hear without a quivering pulse those 
words spoken by dark eyes, burning with light, 
at the same instant they are spoken by a voice 
that trembles between a whisper and a sigh, 
those words, " Do you love me ?" 

Poor Rose ! 

Just as you have seen a humming bird beat 
its rainbow wings against the scarf that lightly 
enveloped it, so her heart beat in her bosom, 
imparting its fire to her cheek and eyes ! 

How it was she knew not, but she seemed 
to grow toward her lover's form, her head 
sought his shoulder as a pillow, the band that 
tied her hair parted, and down it fell, that 
flowing hair, down it streamed, so glossy and 
so beautiful in its hues, now brown, now black, 
now purple, that waving auburn hair. 

And then as the lids of her eyes half closed, 
her lips parted until her white teeth were seen 

— a line of ivory, set in vermilion ! 

Arthur bent gently down, and, for the first 
time, suffered his breath to mingle with hers, 
as their lips throbbed together and mingle in 
that signet of a deathless love ! 

The first kiss ! 

" To-night, at twelve, remember !" he said 

— not in a calm, even voice, you may be sure. 
" To-night, in your hunter's dress, at twelve, 
remember !" and hurried from the room. 

When she came to the door, she beheld him 
standing on the opposite shore, the summer 
moon pouring its rays upon his uncovered 
brow. Between them rippled the stream — 
around and above fluttered the sea of leaves, 
vr.d (roifl afar came the plaintive song of the 



OF JULY* 1776, 

whippoor-will. He stood on the very rocfc, 
where she first beheld him a month gone bv 

He flung a kiss to her as she stood in the 
cottage door; a warm picture in a rude frame. 

Again that word, " Remember !" and he 
was gone. 

Rose looked upon the vacant rock for many 
minutes, and then entered her home, closing 
the door. 

In fifteen minutes there came from the cot- 
tage door a young hunter, clad in a dress which 
was at once singularly neat and picturesque. 
A gray frock, that fell open, disclosing the buff 
waistcoat buttoned to the chin and descending 
below the waist. Breeches of the same color, 
tied at the knee, where a buckskin boot re- 
vealed the shape of the leg. Upon his dark 
hair, which was very glossy and luxuriant, he 
wore a delicate cap, topped with a dainty white 
plume. 

It must be confessed that there were some 
objections to the general harmony of the 
costume. For example, the waistcoat was 
drawn tightly over the bust, while it fell in 
wrinkles about the waist, and the boot, small 
as it was, was too large for the hunter's foot, 
and the sleeves tightened about the arms until 
they revealed a firm, round outline. 

That hunter came stepping along the garden 
with a kind of stealthy grace, and started back 
with a somewhat beautiful surprise, as he be- 
held his warm cheeks and light eyes reflected 
in the calm mirror of Wissahikon ! 

Beautiful Rose of Wissahikon ! 

" The words of this strange woman, Lady 
Marion, bewilder me ! Ah, I have a secret — 
yes, there is one thing which I have not told 
to Arthur ! What a strange, dark story seemed 
upon this lady's tongue, and yet she seemed 
afraid to tell it ! Yet, her parting words I re* 
member well : — ' If you have a brother on 
this side of Eternity, come to my house to- 
night and I will show you his image, and 
reveal to you the very scene in which he is 
placed, at the moment you look upon his 
image! 1 How could she guess this yearning 
desire of my heart, to see that brother of whom 
my father has often spoken in his moments of 
a^onv ! 1 will go to her home, I will flare 
worse perils than she described, .but to have 
one glance at my Brother's form ! " 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



Yes, she had a secret, which she kept locked 
within her own bosom. Even from the lover, 
to whom she entrusted her soul, she kept it, 
not from any impure motive, but — it may be 
— that with all her purity and beauty, she was 
so far a daughter of Eve, as to desire the pos- 
session of one secret, only one. Then what 
a delightful surprise she meditated for her lover, 
when pressing her new found brother in her 
arms, she could say ; Brother, this is Arthur ! 

Look upon her, as she enters the canoe and 
glides down the stream. Gently, softly over 
the tide, the moon upon her face, the boughs 
stretching out their arms to embrace her ! 

She goes to meet the Lady Marion. In 
the summer time I have seen a beautiful green 
snake, spotted with drops of gold, coiling him- 
self quietly under a rosebush, while a hum- 
ming bird, green and gold in his soft plumage, 
hovered near, and near and nearer, until the 
snake disclosed his fangs, and — 

But why this dark presentiment ? 

Gently, softly over the tide the boat bore 
Rose along, while the ripples broke in music 
on the shore. 



The idea of a girl living for sixteen years 
in the solitude of the Wissahikon, her only 
companion a rough old man, who, with all his 
rudeness, teaches her those arts which devel- 
ope genius and soften the life of a woman, even 
as the last flash of a rainbow mellows the sky ! 

Very ridiculous, is it not, my dear lover of 
common place, my dear matter of fact ? 

And yet it is very beautiful ; yes, even if a 
fiction, it is worth all your hard-featured, 
stony-eyed Truth ! 

But it is Truth. Not Truth, shining with 
a bloody glare over the scenes of a battle, or 
growing drowsy with the miasma of a great 
city's crimes, but Truth as beautiful as the 
Wissahikon, and as pure. 

CHAPTER THIRD. 

WASHINGTON, THE KING. 

The house of the Lady Marion stood alone 
on the heights of Wissahikon. 

It was a substantial structure of stone, fac- 
ing toward the south, its massive front present- 
ing one imposing surface, while on either side, 
a semi-circular wing increased its picturesque 



effect. Its steep roof arose in many Gothic 
shapes, crowned with fantastic chimneys and 
bordered by heavy cornices along the eaves. 

Above those roofs a grove of horse chestnut 
trees extended their grateful shade : their broad 
green leaves, their substantial trunks were con- 
trasted with the bright verdure of the sward, 
the rich brown of the gravelled walks, the 
dark gray of the stone. 

On the right of the mansion, from among a 
copse of hazel, the roof of a small summer 
house, or pavilion, burst into light. This 
elegant structure contained but a single room, 
furnished in a strange, antique style. 

Two winding carriage roads led from the 
front of the mansion, under the grove of horse 
chestnut trees, along 1 a wide lawn that extended 
for some three hundred yards, until it was 
terminated by the green hedge-row of a 
shadowy lane. 

Behind the mansion sank the wild declivity 
of Wissahikon, trees and rocks, sweeps of 
sward, growths of under-wood, gentle elevations 
and green hollows, all mingled together. 

The mansion contained many chambers, all 
furnished in contrasted style ; many passages, 
some hollowed from the thick wall, some wind 
ing like a serpent's track, some extending broad 
and deep along the entire extent of the edifice 
It is with three apartments in this mansion 
that our history on the night of July the third, 
between the hours of ten and twelve, is con- 
nected. The pavilion among the hazel trees 
has also a deep interest for us. Almost at the 
same time, in the east and in the west wing, 
in the pavilion and in the banquetting room 
of Lady Marion's house, scenes of vital inter 
est are in progress. 

Time had been, when gay equipages, bear 
ing the forms of gallant men and beautiful wo 
men, had rolled along the lawn, when noble 
steeds stood champing the bit before the door, 
when every window and crevice of the man- 
sion poured out its separate stream of light, 
and the entire grove blazed in every leaf, with 
a radiance like day. 

Then the sound of woman's laughter, the 
tread of woman's foot bounding in the dance, 
mingled with the clatter of goblets and the 
music of a full band. Until the morning 
dawned, the Wissahikon rung with the sounds 
of revelry and the old forest thrilled with the 



108 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776, 



clamor of a mad festival. The pavilion, too. 
shrouded in its copse of hazel, witnessed many 
a coy meeting, many a scene in which the 
young maiden, fluttering in satin and brilliant 
with diamonds, her blood thrilling with the 
dance and wine, heard with crimsoned cheek 
and panting bosom the tremulous story, warm 
from the lips of passion. 

But now all was dark. Dark the mansion 
in its many chambers ; dark the pavilion in 
its solitary room ; dark the woods in its tan- 
gled mazes and winding paths. Not a gleam 
of light, from pavilion or mansion, illumined 
the midnight shadows of the grove. 

And yet, had you taken your position by the 
large tree, that towers before the door, and 
watched from dark until midnight, you might 
have seen many strange guests enter the room. 
Let us, within the shadows of the grove, wait 
patiently and behold them as they come. 

The Lady Marion, with old Michael by 
her side ! It is but dusk ; they come from the 
woods of Wissahikon, and silently enter the 
hall door. 

An hour passes — what have we here? A 
multitude of forms, shrouded, although it is 
summer time, in cloaks, with scabbards rat- 
tling underneath. They have left their horses 
in yonder grove, hidden by the leaves. One 
by one they enter the mansion ; twenty forms 
1 all, treading with the step of young manhood 
over the gravelled walks. 

Another hour ! A solitary figure, dressed 
in a dark habit, appears, glances cautiously 
around and is gone into the mansion. As he 
turns his face, we may almost recognize the 
features of Arthur, Walter or Reginald, as you 
may please to call him. 

Silence again ; an half hour passes, and an 
old man, whose dark attire flashes with lace 
of gold, steps from the shadows and enters the 
house of Lady Marion. 

Then the form of a young hunter came hur- 
riedly from the wood in the rear of the house, 
and, without turning to right or left, glided 
within the hazel copse which overshadowed 
the pavilion. 

Poor Rose of Wissahikon ! 

You will confess that these movements, this 
strangely contrasted crowd of guests, all, save 
one, entering the house of Lady Marion, the 



mystery which envelopes their actions, the se- 
crecy with which they move — nils us with 
surprise, with awe. 

Between the hours of ten and twelve we 
will enter the mansion and behold, in three 
separate chambers, scenes of absorbing inter- 
est. Then our steps will wander to yonder 
pavilion, and, with hushed breath and earnest 
gaze, we will witness a scene that exceeds 
them all. not only in its deep interest, but in 
its strange disclosures. 

First, let the curtain rollback from the Ban- 
quetting Chamber — 

What do we see ? No goblets of wine ? 
No wreaths of flowers ? The light of six wax 
candles, placed in candlesticks of silver, reveals 
the wainscotted walls of that wide chamber, 
which traverses the mansion from north to 
south. At the southern end a black curtain, 
drooping from the ceiling to the floor, closes 
the view. 

Around a long table, covered with a dark 
cloth, the strange guests are assembled. No 
service of silver, nor goblets or plates of gold, 
nor anything that betokens a festival, do we 
behold. 

A sword gleams from the dark cloth of that 
table ; beside it, letters, papers, parchments, 
bearing the signatures of such men as Thomas 
Jefferson and John Adams, George Washing- 
ton and John Hancock, are placed. 

Do you behold the scene ? Those twenty 
men, all young, with athletic forms and earnest 
brows, seated around the table — their forms 
brilliant with warrior costume, every man with 
his sword unsheathed upon his knee, while 
his eye is centered upon that erect figure at the 
head of the board ! 

These are the chivalry of the state and con- 
tinent; young men with wealth at their beck, 
true hearts, who never yet having shared in 
council or battle, beat with fiery impatience to 
do some service to their native land. 

And at the head of the table, in a uniform of 
j dark green, faced with gold, stood Walter, the 
hunter, his pale, olive cheek, now glowing with 
strong emotion ; his dark eye, flashing a fire 
that sent its rays to every heart. 

He stood erect, glancing with conscious 
pride upon these brave men, who hare hailed 
him Leader. 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



107 



His eye glances along the board ; he search- 
ingly surveys those faces. Not a brow but 
wears its faith, like a signet upon its surface ; 
not an eye but flashed with answering fire to 
his own. 

In that clear deep voice which warms the 
blood to hear, he condenses the deliberations of 
hours in a few bold words. 

" The time has come for action. The 
country — the land which bore us, and which 
God has given to the free — calls to us for de- 
liverance ! Not merely from the sceptre ot 
George III., but from the wiles of faction — 
the tricks of anarchists! For dnys the Con- 
gress, sitting in the old Statehouse, has held its 
secret session ! For days with closed doors, 
and all the indications of mystery, it has pur- 
sued its deliberations ! To what purpose do 
these mysterious councils tend ? Witness the 
intercepted letters of its leaders, now spread 
before you on the table — witness the signa- 
tures of Hancock, and Jefferson, and Adams ! 
They would flood the land with blood, not to 
accomplish its freedom, but to establish on the 
ruins of the British power the miserable anar- 
chy of a Venitian Senate. They would pour 
armies forth on the battle field, not so much to 
crush King George, as to crus-h George Wash- 
ington !" 

He paused, while his flashing eye ran round 
the throng, as if eager to gather the purpose of 
men's hearts from their faces. 

No shout, but a deep murmur pervaded that 
banquet chamber. From their muttered whis- 
pers, we may gain some knowledge of the ob- 
ject of this council. 

" Jefferson plans the overthrow of Wash- 
ington!" 

" Hancock would restore us to the sway of 
the British King !" 

"The proofs are there — letters signed by 
them, and plotting treason !" 

" Even Washington writes to this patriotic 
.•ady — the brave woman who has so mysteri- 
ously summoned us together — writes from his 
camp, and reveals the treachery of Congress !" 

" We must surround their doors, and scatter 
their deliberations to the winds!" 

" Ay, sword in hand, my friends! For the 
sword is your only cure for the tricks of trai- 
tors I" 



And twenty extended hands held their good 
swords in the light. 

At the same moment, from opposite sides of 
the dark curtain, a face was thrust into view, 
and as suddenly withdrawn again. This, the 
scarred visage of Michael the Hunter ; that, 
the beautiful face of Lady Marion. 

It must be confessed that as Walter stood 
erect in the presence of his comrades, his 
marked countenance glaring with the fire of 
his sworn resolve, he looked, in every inch of 
his form, the soldier and the hero. 

" For the assassin there is a gibbet ; for the 
traitor, the sword ! To-night, brothers in the 
good cause — to-night, a committee, appointed 
by Congress to put their mysterious delibera- 
tions into shape, held their council in the city. 
Jefferson, Adams, Sherman, and Livingston, 
are that committee, selected to fulfil the dark 
work of Congress. 

" Lured, either by the hope of titles from the 
King, in case they betray the country into his 
hands; or ambitious of positions of power and 
trust in case they establish an aristocratic an- 
archy, like the Republic of Venice — these 
men have determined the overthrow of Wash- 
ington. We must trample their schemes into 
dust! Desperate crimes require desperate 
remedies! We must surround the house in 
which these traitors hold their councils — en- 
compass every avenue — encircle the room in 
which they plan their treachery — and, at the 
points of our swords force from their grasp 
the proofs of their treachery ! Ay, we must 
do it ! and before the clock strikes twelve ! 
Then, with the traitors in our power, we will 
unfurl our flag to the morning light, call the 
generous spirits of the camp and council to our 
aid, and from the Statehouse hall, proclaim the 
name under which we rally — the name under 
which we will fight — the name under which 
we will conquer, with us — Washington, the 
King !" 

He paused, and a silence like the grave per- 
vaded that hall. From side to side, the com- 
rades turned, seeking from each other's faces 
some explanation of this bold movement. The 
light of the wax candles flashed along the 
wainscotted walls, and over the dark curtain. 
Still, that singular silence prevailed. His brow 
flushed with emotion, Walter sank in his chair, 



103 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 



while only the sound of deep-drawn breath 
disturbed the stillness of the scene. 

Slowly — slowly the curtain rolled aside. 
From its folds, in all her beauty, her voluptu- 
ous form attired in a dark habit, stepped forth 
the Lady Marion, with the form of rough 
Michael, armed with his rifle, by her side. 

" Behold !" and she pointed to an object, 
disclosed by the parting of the curtain. 

" For that I will fight !" cried old Michael, 
waving his rifle toward the object. 

At once a shout, like thunder, echoed along 
that banquet chamber ; at once twenty forms 
started to their feet, and twenty swords des- 
cribed their circles in the air. 

You see their faces, glowing with enthu- 
siasm ; you behold Walter turn and echo their 
shout ; while the Lady Marion glides to his 
side, presses his hands within her own, pours 
the passion of her heaving breast into her dark 
eyes, and whispers — " Reginald, you have 
done well !" 

And there, disclosed by the curtains, stood 
the portrait of a warrior, whose tall form and 
majestic face seemed about to start from the 
canvass, and glide among the guests, and speak 
to them. A form, such as kings never owned 
— an eye, that gleamed its soul from a chival- 
ric face ; a hand, that grasped its own true 
sword. 

There was a crown upon that noble brow. 

And louder through the banquet chamber — 
while the Lady Marion, her olive cheek bloom- 
ing with passion and triumph, glided closer to 
Walter's side — louder swelled the shout 

" Washington, the king 1" 

CHAPTER FOURTH. 
lady marion's kiss. 

In the crescent-shaped room of the east 
wing, sat an aged man, bending over a table 
overspread with manuscripts, the light of a 
solitary candle upon his withered brow. 

He sat in a capacious arm-chair, his slender 
form attired in a dark coat, adorned by lace 
and buttons of gold; while his cambric ruffles 
were relieved by a long waistcoat of black 
velvet. 

His hair, white with age, was plainly ga- 
thered back from his face His entire ap- 
pearance denoted wealth and station ; his high 



and somewhat narrow forehead, deep gray 
eyes, and mouth relaxing in a calm smile, be- 
trayed the indications of an enthusiastic nature, 
whose fire neither the touch of sorrow nor the 
frosts of age could chill. 

The semi-circular room was elegantly hung 
with tapestry of dark purple ; the carpet dis- 
played a soft and rich combination of colors ; 
the ceiling rising in a dome, blushed with the 
delicate tints of the dawn. Altogether, it was 
a perfect gem of a chamber, worthy of the 
luxurious taste of Lady Marion. 

The old man was bent over the table, quietly 
reading by the light of the lamp, while — as 
he passed from paper to paper, from letter to 
letter — his withered face gradually lighted up, 
and his eye began, by slow degrees, to burn 
with the fire of youth. 

For the letters that he read, were the letters 
of love — the first warm breathings of a heart, 
now cold forever ; written by a hand that long 
ago was dust ! 

The tears fell from the old man's eyes. He 
placed the letters in his bosom. Then, he un- 
rolled a huge manuscript, bearing on its cover 
the words — " Journal of John Landsdowne." 

Here, written in a fair, clear hand, there, 
blotted by tears, again, stained with blood, the 
journal covered a space of twenty years. 

But what love and adventures, heroism and 
murder, were comprised in that history of 
twenty years ! 

The old man read with a flushed cheek, an 
eye all fire, a heart that writhed within him. 

At last as he came to the history of that aw- 
ful night, written by the hand of the mur- 
derer himself, the bloody record dropped from 
his hand, and he buried his face in his hands. . 

" And yet he was a brother!" he gasped. 
" Two weeks ago, standing within the shadow 
of the ruins of the blasted house, I discovered 
the fearful history in her grave ! 

" It was the hand of God that guided me 
there ; the same hand leads me to the valley of 
the Wissahikon !" 

A shadow fell along the floor, by his side. 
Do you see that proud form, standing upon the 
threshold — that countenance stamped with an 
expression that contracts the brows, while it 
parts the red lips in a smile ? 

It is the Lady Marion ; she advances and 
lays her hand upon the old man's shoulder 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



103 



" All, is it you, Lady Marion ?" he said, rais- 
ing his eyes. " Little did I think a year ago, 
when 1 encountered you, the brightest among 
the beauties — nay, do not smile, 'tis but an 
okl man's compliment! — the brightest among 
the beauties who surround the throne of King 
George, that I should ever find you here, liv- 
ing in retirement, among the woods of Wissa- 
hikon ! You was then known as the « Ameri- 
can beauty,' who had given her hand to Sir 
George Ferrers. Pardon ! if my words raise 
an unpleasant feeling. Sir George died shortly 
after I saw you at Court. And then, with a 
heroism worthy of a Spartan woman, you re- 
solved to return to your native land, eager to 
share the perils of freedom rather than bask in 
the sunshine of a royal court. Much less did 
I then imagine that through your agency, I 
should one day recover my lost daughter — " 

"Yesterday, in the city, you placed those 
papers in my hands ; and I told you where 
your child was hidden. You were also in 
search of your nephew, Reginald Landsdowne, 
of St. Leonard " 

" I bear in my hand his credentials as Dele- 
gate from his State, to the Continental Con- 
gress. He has been strange — mysterious in 
his movements for the past year. Heir to an 
immense estate — in fact, the actual possessor 
— with talents and genius that fit him to shine, 
even in the Congress, where so many great 
men are gathered, he has buried himself from 
society for nearly a year. Eh ! eccentric ? 
your looks seems to say." 

" To-morrow you shall clasp your daughter 
to your arms ; to-morrow you shall present 
these credentials to Reginald Landsdowne, of 
St. Leonard's " 

"Why not to-night?" and the old man'? 
countenance betrayed an overwhelming anxiety. 

"Do not ask my reasons !" Her smile was 
accompanied with one of those glances of her 
full dark eyes, that flashed but to conquer. 
"To-morrow, all will be right! To-morrow, 
all my little plans — ha, ha ! you see I have a 
true woman's taste for mystery — will be ful- 
filled !" 

Thus speaking, she left the room, while the 
old man bent down to his papers again. 

"All would be well," he muttered, " if I 
could only find my lost son ! But it is asking 
too much of Heaven. And yet my researches 



into his history, from the moment when, but a 
child, he was torn from his dead mother's side 
Well, well ! to-morrow will decide all !" 

"To-morrow!" triumphantly echoed Lady 
Marion, as she hurried along the corridor and 
down the stairs. "Ha, ha ! to-morrow !" 

She stood in front of the old mansion, on 
the stone steps leading to the hall door. In 
silence, twenty horsemen awaited there — 
their steeds grouped round the walk — their 
scabbards seen from beneath the folds of their 
cloaks. 

A single horse wheeled from the throng, and 
his rider, bending over the neck of the impa- 
tient steed, removed his chapeau from his pale 
brow. 

"Lady Marion, I go to serve my country !" 
he whispered. 

She advanced, and standing on the steps of 
stone, extended her hands ! Ah ! how that 
pressure fired the leader's blood ! Bending 
down over the neck of his steed, he — imper- 
ceptibly — wound his arms about her neck, 
and felt her cheek against his own, her heart 
throbbing through her voluptuous bosom. 

" If I am successful— — " he whispered. 

" Return successful," — a soft voice breathed 
the words upon his lips, and sealed them with 
a kiss — "and Reginald Landsdowne, I am 
yours !" 

The sounds rose in the light, and twenty 
horses darted away, bearing their gallant and 
chivalrous riders toward the city. Away, 
through the trees, and along the lawn, faint 
and fainter, the sound of the hoofs, the clatter- 
ing of scabbards, died on the ear. 

The figure of a man advanced from the 
grove, and stood beside Lady Marion. So ut- 
terly absorbed was this woman in the emotion 
resulting from her dark schemes, that she did 
not notice the presence of the stranger, until 
after the lapse of a few moments. 

» Ah ! Michael, is it you ?" she said at last. 
" Take horse, and away ; do not lose a mo- 
ment. While these gentlemen surround the 
Committee, you must secure the person of 
President Hancock ! Do not return to your 
home ; I will take care that your daughter shall 
not wonder at your absence ! Away !" 

"For Washington!" the bluff old hunter 
muttered, as he hurried from the hall. 

The Lady Marion stood wrapt in thought. 



no 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776, 



" He loves her, with a pure passion, and 1 
would dishonor her ! . Me, he loves, with a 
passion born of madness ; — 1 can sway him 
as I will. For me, he will dishonor his name 
and betray his country ! Ha, ha !" 

Bewitching Lady Marion ! 

CHAPTER FIFTH. 
lady marion's tear. 

It was the bower of a beautiful woman. 

Three windows, curtained with folds of pale 
orimson silk, mirrors between each window, 
reaching from the ceiling to the floor, so that 
the lovely woman who occupies it, might see a 
lovely lady like herself whichever way she 
turned ; a luxurious sofa, cushioned with vel- 
vet, and an arm-chair whose capacious back 
her head might rest upon as a pillow — it was 
the very Temple in which a proud and haughty 
woman might retire and worship her own 
beauty. 

And yet strange to say, the small lamp 
which hung from the dome-like ceiling, did not 
reveal the form of a lovely woman. 

No ! Beside a small writing-desk, scattered 
all over with papers, stood 'an uncouth figure, 
broad in the shoulders, attired in a rugged 
dress, with heavy boots, and a mask of fbded 
crape over his face. 

It was the Outcast who had attacked Lady 
Marion in the woods ; the robber who had de- 
spoiled her bosom of its chain and jewel ; the 
assassin who had prepared for his work of 
force by tampering with the hunter's rifle. 

Wo ! to the proud woman, if in her most se- 
cret retreat she encounters this outcast, with 
crnpe upon his face and pistols in his belt ! 

He bent over the table, reading with a low 
chuckle of delight a letter which the hand of 
Lady Marion had traced. Looking over his 
shoulder, we may discover words like these : 

To the General commanding his Majesty's forces in 
America — 

Ere you receive this, you will have learned that the 
prominent members of the Rebel Congress have been 
seized and made prisoners, by certain gentlemen who 
have proclaimed George Washington, the Rebel Gene- 
ral, KiN'r:. At this hour, Hancock, Jeff srson, Adams, 
v ith other Delegates, are prisoners at my house, near 
Philadelphia. Thus have we introduced dissension 
among the ranks of the rebels; while one party prate 
about a republic, another talk of returning to their al- 



legiance, and a third — I know your excellency will 
smile — prate of Kino WAsm?rr,TtfN. How this has 
been accomplished will be made known at the proper 
time. Enough to say, that this Declaration, about 
which they whispered so deeply, for a month back, this 
Proclamation of Independence, is now crushed — quite 
forgotten in the public clamor. Permit me to hope, 
that in announcing these facts to his Majesty, you will 
neither forget the services, nor promised reward of 

Marion. 

The Fourth of July, 1776. 

" Ha, ha ! draft of a letter to be sent in cy- 
pher — " muttered the Outcast — "The good 
lady anticipates — she may fail — " 

" She cannot fail," said a deep voice, and 
Lady Marion stood beside him. 

Does the Outcast dart upon her, with the 
upraised knife, and menace her beauty with the 
violence, the outrage of a bravo and ruffian ? 

No ! He stands for a moment, as if contem- 
plating the singular beauty of her face, the elo- 
quence of her eye, the passion of her swelling 
bust, her majestic form. Then tearing the cap 
from his brow, the crape from his face, the 
rough costume from his form, he stands before 
us, a young gentleman, slender in figure, clad 
in a gay British uniform, with light curls of 
golden hair waving about his florid face. 

" Tolerably well done : that robber scene ! 
Eh — sis?" he exclaimed, with that air of 
quiet composure — some call it impudence — 
which alike distinguishes the f.ne city gentle- 
man and the supremely fine city blackguard — 
" The poor devil did not imagine that we got 
up that little piece of tragedy for his benefit ! 
I've quite a good opinion of myself in private 
theatricals !" 

He flung his delicate form upon the sofa, 
and turned towards the light a face marked by 
the cold, dead eyes of satiety, the unmeaning 
lip and vacant stare of dissolute indulgence. 

" All is safe," his sister exclaimed, pacing 
the room — " Confusion in the camp of the 
Rebels — Reginald Landsdowne in my pow- 
er—" 

" Sis, do you really love that man ?" — you 
can see the sneer upon the face of that finished 
man of the world — " Beyond your ambitious 
schemes — your title and your promised 
power, do you care for him ? pale-faced, 
melancholy Don Quixotte that he is?" 

The brother was frightened by his sister's 
look. 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



Ill 



* 6 F*o I care for him ? Why have I deserted 
the glare and splendor of the British Court, for 
this dark path of treachery and intrigue ? Why 
coined my soul into desperate deeds, in order 
to combine men of various interests into one 
great enterprise ? Why all this mystery, this 
craft, yes, I will say it, this crime ? Do I 
love him ? Que year ago, I beheld that pale, 
melancholy face, standing out from among the 
shallow-visaged courtiers ; I felt the light of 
those deep, earnest eyes, and from that hour 
loved Reginald Landsdowne ! Yes, all my 
schemes shall — must end, in placing a coro- 
net upon his brow, the title of Earl before his 
name ! Love him ? ' Tis of such men, kings 
are made !" 

Pacing over the carpet, she clenched her 
hands upon her bosom, while her eyes flashed 
that singular and peculiar light, which made 
her look like a beautiful Demon. 

" B-ut you forget my part of the bargain, 
sis — " cried the brother, assuming an easier 
position on the sofa — "I forged those papers, 
bearing the signatures of Jefferson and the 
other rebels. I aided your schemes. I have 
made myself shockingly disgusting to look 
upon, for your sake. Now comes my reward. 
The Rose of Wissahikon yesterday was but a 
poor peasant maid. Now, she is the heiress 
of some sweet lands, and delicious stores of 
gold. Your dear brother is in want of lands 
and gold, and is willing to take a wife into the 
bargain. What need of a long courtship, 
when — - " 

" Pshaw ! Need you make me the partner 
of your schenres?" — she paused before him, 
her eyes flashing scorn — "go! if you have 
your plan arranged, go and execute it ! Tell 
not to me your schemes — for with all my am- 
bition, Gerald — with all the feverish thirst of 
power — I am a woman !" 

For once she blushed. Yes, blushed, over 
the neck and cheeks and brow, while her head 
fell slowly on her bosom. The youthful 
gentleman, whose dead eyes and colorless lips 
and florid cheeks, betrayed a premature old 
age, surveyed his magnificent sister with a 
glance of surprise. All that Heaven had be- 
stowed of the Man, upon this darling of vice, 
had long ago dribbled out from his veins, leav- 
ing his heart as cold as his leaden eye. He 



could not comprehend the remorse of his 
sister. 

" Go !" she cried, as that pure impulse of 
her woman's *nature again bathed her cheek 
and brow with crimson. " The anguish of 
the father, to-morrow, when he learns his 
daughter's fate — the curse of Reginald when 
he learns her shame — these will be hard to 
bear, aye more dangerous than the knife or 
rifle of old Michael, the hunter." 

" I will arrange this little matter," said Gerald 
Moynton, as he pushed negligently aside his 
golden curls — " excuse me, sis, for a young 
lady is anxiously waiting to " see her lost 
brother.' 1 " 

He lounged languidly from the room, leav- 
ing Lady Marion alone, her arms clasped 
across her bosom, her head bowed low. In vain 
that pressure of the clasped hands ; it could 
not still the volcano of contending passions, 
raging within the breast. In vain that droop- 
ing of the head ; it could not hide the shadow 
of the face, the quivering of the lip, the eye 
gleaming with one, only one drop of pity. 

Blessed be Heaven for that solitary tear. 



CHAPTER SIXTH. 

WAYANIKO. 

In the darkness of the summer house, Rcse 
awaited the coming of the Astrologer, who 
was to disclose her brother's face. 

The windows of the solitary room were 
closed, not the ray of a star, or the gleam of 
a taper, found entrance there. From the mo- 
ment that she passed the threshold, closing the 
only door as she entered, the darkness of the 
place had not been broken by a ray, nor its 
death-like silence disturbed by a sound. 

Yet the carpet which her footstep pressed 
was soft and luxurious ; the wall which her 
fingers touched, was shrouded in hangings of 
satin ; the chair in which she sank was 
cushioned in softest velvet, that yielded like a 
pillow to her form. 

Attired in that hunter's garb, she laid her 
head on one shoulder, and resigned herself to 
her thoughts. 

The strange story of Lady Marion — how in 
all its hues of sunshine and cloud, in all its 
thrilling words of blood and tears, it rose once 
more upon her soul ! 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 7776, 



" "Within these wild solitudes, dwells an old 
man, who has made the future his study for 
seventy years, and wrung supernatural truth, 
even from the grasp of death. Go to the 
pavilion, he will meet you there ! Your lost 
brother shall be revealed to you : you shall be- 
hold him, even as he is, whether in health or 
sickness, poverty or wealth !" 

How could she doubt words so kind, spoken 
with beaming eyes and soft hands gently pres- 
sed within her own 1 Perchance, in that mo- 
ment, Lady Marion spoke but the sincere feel- 
ing of her heart ; perchance it was but a dear 
surprise that she intended ; perchance from 
the very shadow of that pavilion the brother* 
would start, and gather the sister to his breast, 
perchance — 

But those words spoken to Gerald Moynton 
in her bower ? 

Rose was thinking of her lost brother, when 
she fell asleep. Such a beautiful dream ! A 
winding path, leading from a summer valley, 
green with trees and beautiful with flowers 
along the ascent of a hill among the trunks of 
centuried oaks. A garden so wild and deserted, 
its scanty flowers choked by weeds. Then, 
through the tangled paths, she beheld a black- 
ened wall, with the blue sky gleaming through 
its desolate windows. Fearfully across that 
threshold she passed — O, what sigh of horror 
was here ! The half bared form of a beautiful 
woman lay extended on the hearth, her bosom 
rent by a hideous gash, and a little babe 
stretched out its tiny hands, and played with 
the long dark hair, dabbled in its mother's 
blood. 

As though a hand was at her throat, pressing 
the breath from her bosom with its iron clutch, 
Rose struggled, and after a moment like the 
agony of death, awoke. As she glanced 
around the park pavilion, a voice unnaturally 
deep and hollow thrilled on her soul. 

" Maiden ! would'st thou behold thy 
brother's form." 

Was it but a continuation of her dream ? 
Scarce knowing what she said, Rose gasped, 
'I would!" 

From the darkness of that chamber, as from 
the vault of a midnight sky, a faint light strug- 
gled into birth, and played upon ihe maiden's 
face. Her form is dark, but do you see that 
face bathed in a pale crimson glow, the eyes 



dilating, the lips slowly parting, the hair war- 
ing back from the white brow ! It stands out 
from the gloom, like a cherub face, painted 
among misty clouds. 

" Thy brother comes ! " said that voice, 
whose source was invisible. 

Rose bent forward with hushed breath, and 
beheld a mirror, glimmering in that pale crim- 
son light. A mirror that now was lost in 
clouds of light golden mist, and now seemed 
like a midnight sky, gleaming with a single 
star. From its centre shone that light, the sol- 
itary star ! 

"Ah! I hear his step — he comes through 
the wood — his foot is on the threshold — he 
is here !" 

As Rose gasped these words, her whole 
frame quivering with an emotion almost super- 
natural, a sudden light flashed from the dark- 
ness, bathed her face in darkness, and revealed 
the form of a young man, who, with his arms 
folded, stood gazing upon her with a sneering 
lip, and dull, leaden eyes. 

Gerald Moynton and his victim ! 

" Sister, I have come !" he said, and ex- 
tended his arms. At the same moment a 
mass of perfumed vapor, rolling in soft clouds, 
fills the pavilion, and penetrates the veins of 
the unprotected girl. She felt all power over 
her limbs or motions gliding from her, while 
her mind shone out in renewed vigor. A lul- 
' ling sensation pervaded every nerve, a dreamy 
languor, the result of the pungent vapor, which 
filled the place, possessed her form ; she had 
not power to move a hand or foot, while her 
very soul shrank within her at the sight of this 
man, with the pale face and leaden eyes. 

" You ! my brother ! N-o-o-o !" she faintly 
gasped. 

Her form, thrown helplessly on the chair, 
one limb crossed over the other, her arms rest- 
ing by her side, as though deprived of all the 
| power of motion ; her head laid on the right 
j shoulder ; the features perfectly calm and 
J statue-like, while the cheek glows with a faint 
flush, and her eyes emit a soft fire, diffused 
like luminous moisture over their surface, be- 
tween the half closed lids. 

She was very beautiful, the helpless Rose 
of Wissahikon ! 

But Gerald Moynton had no pity. 

His jaded countenance faintly glowed, his 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



113 



lip was compressed, but his cold, stony eyes 

— from which the lowest vice had stolen for- 
ever the fire of youth — emitted no flashing 
light. 

44 1 am your brother!" he said, and took 
her hand. She quivered faintly, made a mo- 
tion like one oppressed by a nightmare, and 
moved her lips, but could not utter a sound. 
O, she shrank from his polluted touch with all 
her soul, but the misty vapor which filled the 
room, rendered her helpless as though she had 
been chained with cords of iron. 

" You see my pretty one, and I am your 
brother, and I love you !" 

Bending languidly forward, he kissed her 
with his colorless lips — yes, pressed those 
lips which resembled a rose-bud torn in twain 

— and at the same moment fell like a weight 
to the floor. Fell, stunned by a sudden blow; 
fell, trampled by a firm foot ! 

There, before the motionless maiden, tow- 
ered a tall form, clad in a many colored blanket 
whose rich dyes swept from his broad shoul- 
ders to the ground, while his bronzed forehead 
was surmounted by a solitary plume. He 
stood there, like a king upon his throne ; the 
tiger's skin, which enveloped his form beneath 
the blanket, relieved by the gleam of a hunting 
knife.. In one arm a rifle ; his limbs cased in 
leggings of buckskin ; moccasins upon his 
feet, he stood before her, his neck rising 
proudly from his broad shoulders, while his 
dark red face, with its aquiline nose, firm 
mouth and prominent chin, was strangely re- 
lieved by clear blue eyes. 

An Indian of the forest, with clear blue eyes ! 

" Sister, I have come at last !" he said, that 
stern red man, and stretched forth his arms. 

" Brother l" she cried, and felt herself drawn 
toward his breast. 

44 We parted many years ago" — said that 
voice, speaking clearly with a strong Indian 
accent — 44 Beside the body of the dead woman 
our mother. Many suns, many moons, have 
gone since then. Sixteen times since that 
hour, there have been flowers and snows. We 
meet again! You the Rose of the Valley, the 
flower of Wissahikon ! I, the White Indian, 
Wayaniko ! 

Rose heard the voice, and felt her senses 
glide from her like the dew from the flower 
before the morning sun. 



When she again unclosed her eyes, an old 
man bent over her — she felt his tears upon 
her face, his grey hairs touch her cheek; she 
heard him whisper 44 Daughter !" 

By her side, that tall Indian form gazing 
upon her, with those clear blue eyes, shining 
from his dark red face. 

Rose, still wrapt in a kind of half conscious- 
ness, hears them converse together; hears with 
blood now burning like lava, now freezing 
like death, the dark story, in which the names 
of Walter, Arthur, Reginald are mingled with 
the name of Lady Marion. She beholds the 
credentials in her father's hand , even now her 
lover goes to do a work of treason, perchance 
murder. 

It is a strange, a stormy history ! 

All she knows, all she feels, is that her 
lover is in danger. 

Darting from the chair, she seizes those cre- 
dentials, dashes through the door, and clad as 
she is, in her hunter's garb hurries toward the 
lane where the carriage waits for her. 

The father, the son, stand gazing in each 
other's face, as though stricken dumb, by this 
sudden energy of the brave girl. 

On, brave Rose on ! The glen is past, then 
the cliff is won, and last of all, the wood of - 
pines is threaded by your frenzied steps. 

In the shadiest nook of the sequestered lane, 
the faithful negro in his gay livery, sitting on 
the box of the carriage, beholds a slender form 
dart from the bushes, and in a moment glide 
within the carriage door. 

Away, mettled steeds, away ! Through the 
shadows of the night, you see the carriage 
ascend the steep of yonder distant hill. 



44 Ask me not now, father, the cause of my 
sudden appearance ! — the explanation of these 
mysteries. Be it enough to say, I know all ! 
I must away to the city to save my sister — 
save your brother, who now goes to do 
violence to the chief of your nation's council 
— and save this Reginald, who wears my 
sister's peace wit.hin his breast !" 

And as the noble Indian form left the 
pavilion, Martin Landsdowne sank on his 
knees, and thanked God for the recovery of 
these children, whom he had never seen, since 
that moment when they were torn by rude 
hands from the bosom of the dead mother. 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 17T6, 



114 

Tossed by contending passions, her brow 
Jisfigured by a frown, her eyes glaring in her 
livid face, Lady Marion gazed on her discom- 
forted brother, paced hurriedly along her 
chamber, and with that muttering of low-toned 
words, scattered her dark hair by the roots. 

" Foiled, and now ! Now, when the 
triumph was ours ! Ah, it is too much ! Rise, 
Sir — do not crouch pale and thunderstricken 
there, but saddle my horse, and get me some 
arms. The night is but half spent !" 



CHAPTER SEVENTH. 

THE COUNCIL IN THE OLD STATEHOUSE. 

Through old Philadelphia at dead of night, 
we will hasten, with hushed breath and stealthy 
tread. 

Not tnrough the Philadelphia of our dajr, 
which extends for miles on miles, a wilderness 
of red brick, a gorgeous panorama of wealth 
and misery — reaching from the marble temple 
consecrated with the name of Girard, to the 
ark-like structure of the Navy-yard — from the 
Elm of Shakamaxon to that palace which rises 
on the Schuylkill, a mansion for the poor — 
from river to river — from green hills on the 
north, to the sloping meadows of the Neck on 
the south — a beautiful city, with such elegant 
streets — such dark alleys — such white banks, 
and such picturesque jails ; — such magnificent 
churches — some rising in the pride of their 
varied architecture, and some blackening in the 
day, rearing the awful witness of their blasted 
walls to the blue sky of God ! 

No ! almost the only thing of the old Phila- 
delphia that yet remains is the Hall of the 
Declaration, and that speculation dare not 
batter into ruins — the lust of money cannot 
gnaw into dust! Even as the Hebrew people 
of old solemnly cursed the man who removed 
the sacred landmark, or stoned to atoms the 
wretch who spat upon his mother's gray hairs, 
so let him be treated who removes a brick or 
pollutes an inch of glorious Independence 
Hall ! 

Old Philadelphia, as it lay beneath the mid- 
night sky, on the 3d of July, 1776, was alto- 
gether a different thing from the Philadelphia 
of 1847. 

Along the Delaware, two miles north and 
eouth ; from the Delaware to the west, but a 



mile at most ; — such was its extent. From 
where Broad street now extends — the most 
beautiful avenue in the world for gay young 
gentlemen, ambitious of a fast-trotting horse — 
to the waves of the Schuylkill, all was a thick 
wood, as wild as the red men whom it shel- 
tered, not a hundred years ago. 

From Bush Hill for a mile or two into the 
city, were green fields, beautiful hills, and 
picturesque country-seats. In brief, some 
four or five cities, like the old Philadelphia, 
could, with ease, be laid to sleep in the lap of 
the modern " Brotherly Love.*' 

Through these streets, then let us hurry ; in 
front of the Slatehouse, which arises from a 
green lawn, overspread with trees, and 
encircled by a rude broad fence, let us stay our 
steps, and survey the scattered crowds who 
cluster there. 

The clock whose face is seen near the top 
of the abutment projecting from the rear of the 
Statehouse, points to the hour of twelve ; the 
3d of July is near its end, and, flashing on the 
world, a beautiful thing of godlike hopes, the 
Fourth of July trembles on the verge of 
birth. 

What means these crowds ? Those voices, 
whispering low ? The mingled garb of mer- 
chant, mechanic, farmer and laborer, scattered 
over the lawn ? Listen ! For days Congress 
has been in secret session, and a strange rumor 
broods upon the air, that they are planning 
some deed which will startle the world ! 

Only one window of the old Statehouse 
emits a ray of light. Light, through carefully 
closed curtains, comes forth in trembling rays, 
and dies on the darkness of the lawn. 

While yon immense cloud gathers over the 
Statehouse — so black, so dense, so like a pall 
— let us hasten up these wide stairs, along this 
dark hall, through the darker corridor, into this 
small room, separated by partitions from the 
larger chambers of the second-story, and hung 
with plain tapestry of a rich dark color. 

It is a simply furnished room. A huge ta- 
ble of solid oak, on which a shaded lamp is 
placed, a few heavy chairs, a curtain, hanging 
across the ceiling, and marking a dark space of 
some few feet between its folds and the narrow 
door. You behold this Council Chamber of 
the old Statehouse 

Around that table are seated five men 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



115 



whose various faces and different attitudes 
strike you with a deep interest. 

Alone, at the head of the table, bending over 
an unfolded sheet, traced with the characters of 
a firm, round hand, you behold a tall, athletic 
man, clad in a plain costume of iron grey 
such as a farmer who dwelt in the quiet of his 
fields might wear. His hair is sandy — al- 
most red ; his complexion somewhat fair, but 
marked with freckles ; hi« features bold and 
prominent, but his clear gray eyes light up his 
face, and warm each feature with the fire of a 
determined soul. 

As he bends over the paper, you see his long 
fingers pass from line to line, while his cheek, 
warming with a crimson flush, betrays the 
presence of deep emotion. That is Thomas 
Jefferson, a Delegate from Virginia, who has 
distinguished himself in Congress, as a " Silent 
member, but prompt, frank, explicit and deci- 
sive; not so much renowned for great speeches, 
as for his literary and scientific attainments." * 

On his right, leaning back in the wide arm- 
chair, sat a man dressed in a rich suit of 
brown velvet, his hands folded calmly over his 
chest. Not so tall, but somewhat larger in 
bulk than his companion, his face ruddy in the 
cheeks, intricate with wrinkles where the 
brows meet, piercing in the eyes, displays at 
once the fever and irritability of genius. 

That is John Adams, the Delegate from Bos- 
ton, who thunders, three times a day, in that 
voice that wakes up men's souls — "Great 
Britian is the natural enemy or Amer- 
ica 1" 

Far back, in the shadows, you see a mild 
face, beaming with a gentle smile about the lips, 
the eyes full of calm light, the forehead relieved 
by brown hair, silvered with age, and falling in 
heavy curls behind the ears, stamped with the 
outlines of a giant intellect. 

Benjamin Franklin, the printer boy, who has 
lured the lightnings from the sky, and hurled 
them at thrones of kings. 

On one side of Franklin, a man, whose short 
stout form is clad in a dress of dark green — 
whose ruddy face, stamped with the traces of 
an honest heart, is also marked by the lines of 
thought. Roger Sherman, the shoemaker of 
Connecticut. 



* Words of John Adams. 



There a gentleman, who is attired in a rich 
garb of dark velvet, while his face, somewhat 
jovial in its expression, sparkles with the light 
of flashing black eyes, that glance to and fro 
with a restless expression, 

That is Robert R. Livingston, of New 
York. 

" I like that paper, Jefferson," said Adams, 
drawing his chair nearer to the table ; " I am de- 
lighted with its high tone — its flights of ora- 
tory ; especially that concerning negro slavery, 
which, however, I am afraid will touch our 
Southern brethren who own slaves-— " 

One of those cold smiles which gave such a 
cutting sarcasm to the face of Jefferson, now 
crossed his lips. 

"Or, our Northern brethren, some of whom 
are carriers of slaves," he quietly said. 

"There is one word, however, which I do 
not like," exclaimed Adams. " You call 
King George a ' tyrant.' Now, I regard his 
crimes as rather of an official than a private 
nature " 

" Yes, Claudius Nero was a gentleman of 
the most amiable qualities, and yet he mur- 
dered a few thousand Christians every day, 
and fiddled sometimes over burning Rome." 

Not a smile ruffled the severity of Franklin's 
face, as he uttered this sentiment. 

"To be sure," said Livingston; "Lexing- 
ton and Bunker Hill were fine illustrations of 
the amiable, Christian character of our good 
King." 

" It is indeed severe to call him a tyrant, 
when he values our heads at such a reasonable 
price," said Sherman, the shoemaker. 

The irritable blood of Adams began to glow. 

" Well, have it as you will — I care not for 
the weak, misguided man. My love for his 
government has been recorded in my actions." 
He grasped Jefferson by the hand — - " That is 
a noble document — such as they never 
dreamed of in Greece or Rome. It does you 
eternal honor." 

A glow of pleasure pervaded Jefferson's 
face. To be praised by stout-hearted John 
Adams, was worth fine gold. 

Just fifty years and six hours from the mo- 
ment when Jefferson and Adams joined hands 
in that council room, they lay on their death- 
beds, separated by a distance of four hundred 
miles, yet joined in one glory, their freezing 



116 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 



ears filled with the cannon-thunder and earth- 
quake-shouts of the Fourth of July. 

"Read it again, Jefferson," said Franklin. 

As Jefferson prepared to read the paper 
once again, a noise — like a stealthy footstep — 
was heard, behind yonder curtain. They did 
not heed that sound of warning. Yet, behind 
the curtain and in the corridor, without the 
chamber, twenty swords gleamed through the 
darkness. 

They did not hear that sound, nor the deep 
whisper of Reginald Landsdowne of St. 
Leonard's — " A moment, and the conspirators 
are ours !" 

Thomas Jefferson read the Declaration once 
again. 

How his eyes flashed — how his deep tones 
rung through the chamber, as he uttered words 
like these : — 

" These facts — [the long recital of galling 
Wrongs] — have given the last stab to agoniz- 
ing affection, and manly spirit bids us re- 
nounce forever these unfeeling brethren. We 
must endeavor to forget our former love for 
them, and to hold them as we hold the rest 
of mankind, enemies in war, in peace friends. 
We might have been a free and a great peo- 
ble together ; but a communication of gran- 
deur and of freedom it seems is below their 
dignity. Be it so, since they will have it. 
The road to happiness and to glory is open 
to us too. We will tread it apart from 

THEM." 

There was the strong fever of enthusiasm 
upon the face of Jefferson, as he uttered the 
last word of the Declaration. 

" But this is not all!" he said — "When 
the war is over and our freedom won, the Peo- 
ple must make a new Declaration — They 
must declare the rights of man, the individual, 
sacred above all craft in priesthood or govern- 
ment. They must, at one blow, declare the 
end of all those trickeries of English Law, 
which garnered up from the charnels of age, 
bind the heart and will with lies. They must 
perpetuate republican truth, by declaring the 
homestead of every American, a holy thing, 
which no law can touch, no juggle wrest, from 
his wife and children. Until this is done, the* 
Revolution will have been fought in vain." 

These words created strong emotions in the 
breasts of his compatriots. 



" This is true, but we must take care to pre- 
serve the balance of power in our government," 
exclaimed Adams ; " with all its faults, the 
English system seems the best — " 

" The King pulling one way, the house of 
lords tugging another, while the commons is 
hauled about by both together !" exclaimed 
Franklin, with one of his quiet smiles. 

Sherman and Livingston exchanged meaning 
glances, and joined in his smile. 

Again that sound behind the curtain ! 

But Jefferson rose to his feet, his angular 
form displayed in the shaded light. In a lone 
of deep conviction, he spoke. Oh, that I 
could write his words of holy truth in every 
American heart ! 

" Our People must take care that the labor, 
the blood of the Revolution, is not spent in vain. 
There is one evil, above all others, which I 
fear — the government of this Confederacy 
centralized at the Capitol, surrounded by in- 
numerable hordes of office-holders, dependent 
on its will, and backed by a Judiciary inde- 
pendent of the People. You may talk, gen- 
tlemen, of an age not being prepared for their 
progress into perfect freedom, you may 
whisper ' It is not yet time !* but the word of 
God, the history of centuries, attests the fact 
that for a people determined to be wholly free, 
it is always Time ; that for an age resolved 
to workout its own destiny, it is always Day !" 

When the heart of Jefferson was in his 
words, his freckled cheek glowed with crimson ; 
and his eye flashed the fire of a soul conscious 
of its powers. So now, rising above his com- 
patriots, he thrilled in every nerve, 'while his 
words shot like electric fire, to every heart. 

"We must make the Declaration unani- 
mous," he said, resuming his seat. "For days 
the debate has been fierce and tumultuous. But 
nowwe have nerved the timorous, frowned the 
wavering from our councils, and combined the 
forces of freedom into one solid front. That 
was a noble deed, the Declaration made by 
Pennsylvania, on the 28th of June! — We 
have tested our men, and know them ! Yet 
there is one man absent, whose presence I es- 
I peciallv desire — the lately elected Delegate 

from the State of who has not yet taken 

his seat. I mean " 

The State House clock striking the hour ol 
twelve, interrupted his words. 




8 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS, 



119 



The Fourth of July was horn. 
1 mean Reginald Landsdowne of Lands- 
do wne " 

" He is here !" said a deep voice. 

At the word, the curtain was dashed aside, 
and the gleam of swords shone through the 
Council Room. Silently around that council 
table, circled twenty gallant forms, surrounding 
Jefferson and his compatriots with a wall of 
glittering steel. 

Silently a solitary form advanced ; stood be- 
fore Jefferson ; his tall form heaving with 
emotion, his pole face traced with the fiery re- 
solve of that hour. 

" Reginald Landsdowne !" said Jefferson, 
rising with calm dignity. 

" I am here ! Conspirators, you are our 
prisoners !" cried Reginald, placing his sword 
before the heart of Jefferson. 

" Prisoners ?" echoed Adams, starting to 
his feet. 

" Yes, your plans are known, your schemes 
are revealed 1" spoke Reginald, his bieast heav-« 
ing with deep indignation. " Ab ! shame, 
eternal shame upon your heads r You, the 
Prophets of Freedom, to become the execu- 
tioners I You, Jefferson, to plan th^ overthrow 
of Washington — you, Franklin, to ding the 
sceptre of the Continent once more at the feet 
of the English king — you, Sherman, Living- 
ston, stern republicans as you are, to join in 
this work — and Adams, first and bravest of 
the heroes of the council, you who nominated 
Washington, to plot his downfall !*' 

An indignant murmur pervaded the council 
thamber, while the band drew closer round 
their prisoners. 

" Surely, this is some dream !" cried Jeffer- 
son, very calmly, but with a flash of angei 
rising on his face. 

" Say rather, a plot to assassinate us!" cried 
Adams, all his tumultuous passion flashing to 
his face. 

Franklin quietly folded his arms, and 
whispered with Livingston and Sherman. 
They heard the murmurs of the men, who 
gathered at their backs, and saw those swords 
gleam through the darkness, but were calm. 

** You are our prisoners !" The form of 
Reginald rose to its full stature, as he spoke 
the words. " To crush your schemes, we are 
forced to control your liberty, until the People 



know your crime. To meet the forces of the 
enemy, traitors within and foes without, we are 
resolved to stand in one solid phalanx, our 
leader, Washington the King. 

And through that dim council chamber, with 
the lights burning in the centre, and glittering 
on the blades of twenty swords, rose the deep 
chorus — " Washington the Xing!" 

At the word, which in the breath revealed 
the canker-worm always gnawing at the root 
of republican freedom — the elevation of one 
man to supreme power — Jefferson stood 
aghast. 

" Reginald, you are mad ? Read this, aye 
read, and then hurl charges like these at our 
heads !" 

He pointed to the Declaration, but with his 
head erect, his sword circling through the 
darkened air, Reginald started proudly back. 

" Read ! Have I not read the proofs of your 
treachery ? Comrades, what say ye all ? Have 
we not seen the names of these men attached 
to letters as base as they are decisive ? Gentle- 
men, there is no need of further words. We 
are resolved to crush your cabal with our 
lives !" 

Now came the crisis of the scene. 

Jefferson and Adams stood side by side, 
while at the other end of the table, Franklin, 
Sherman, and Livingston formed a group. The 
face of Jefferson was pale, Adams crimson; 
Sherman stood with his lip fixediy clenched, 
while the hand of Livingston sought the hilt 
of the small dress-sword which he wore. 

Franklin alone was calm. 

" Advance ! You are prisoners, gentlemen !" 

Jefferson quietly removed his chair, retreated 
a step, and confronted Landsdowne, with his 
unquailing eye. 

"• Do not. lay your hand on me," said he, in 
that calm tone. There was danger in his 
look. 

Reginald advanced, his sword clenched in 
his good right hand, his soul resolved, when a 
circumstance occurred that deepened the 
tumultuous emotions of the scene. 

A hand was laid upon the arm of Reginald. 
He turns, all the blood in his body rushing to 
his face, he clutches his sword resolved to re- 
venge the touch of violence, and holds its glit- 
tering blade above the head of Rose! 

In the hunter's dress, her knees bending be- 



120 THE FOURTH O 

neath her with fatigue, her arms extended, her 
head drooping on her bosom, she lifts her eyes 
to his face. 

"Read!" she gasps, and forces the packet 
in his hand. " It is a plot — a scheme, to lure 
you on to ruin. Behold these forgeries! Ah ! 
I have foiled this dark and scheming woman. 
Thank God ! It is not yet too late !" 

You may imagine that scene ! 

Every eye centred upon the disguised wo- 
man, who, like a flower shaken by the storm, 
trembled before Reginald, as he stood with 
sword sunk into the floor, his eyes fixed upon 
his credentials as Delegate to the Continental 
Congress. 

For a moment he stood as one bewildered 
in a dream. 

The swords of his comrades fell ; Jefferson 
gazed upon him in sincere pity, Franklin and 
the other patriots awaited in silence the issue 
of the scene. 

" O, Arthur," cried the brave girl, her bosom 
beating against the vest, until it burst the fasten- 
ings — " Do not wonder, do not pause. I can- 
not explain it — I know not how it is ! But 
believe it is all a scheme contrived for your 
ruin. O, my heart beats and I am so faint — 
I would fain tell you all, but my father — my 
brother " 

The storm of feeling shook the Rose, at 
last. 

Spreading out her arms, while her hair, fall- 
ing from beneath her cap, waved over her form, 
she fell. 

But Franklin caught her in his arms, ex- 
claiming as he gazed upon the young cheek, 
gleaming so white, through the intervals of her 

flowing hair- . " Upon my life, it is a 

woman !" 

Franklin was a Philosopher. 

Meanwhile Jefferson and Adams examined 
the papers, which Rose had scattered on the 
table. 

" Forgeries," whispered the former. " An- 
Dther trick of his Majesty's minions, and by 
no means the weakest. Those forgeries are 
excellently done." 

Reginald's sword clattered on the floor. 

That sound jarred through the council 
chamber like* a knell. Ere it had died away, 
a louder sound, crashed like thunder on the 
air* Twenty swords fell to the floor. 



F JULY, 1776, 

Reginald stood as if in a dream, pressing the 
paper with the same hand that clasped his 
burning brow. 

" Speak, Landsdowne !" cried his comrades, 
their voices mingling in chorus — "Is it a 
trick — have we been duped! Speak — are 
these men good and true ?" 

It was now Jefferson's turn to prove his 
magnanimity. 

" Reginald, read this," he quietly said, and 
led young Landsdowne to the table. 

Reginald bent down. You behold that pale 
face, with lips working, the eyes rolling, as it 
hurries over the immortal lines, you perceive 
the clenched hands laid on the table. 

" O, shame!" he gasped, beating his brow 
against those hands which rested on the 
table — " To be made the tool of this ambitious 
woman." They could see the blushes glow 
beneath his hands. " But there is a remedy 
for it all ! I can yet atone for my fault ! To- 
morrow, Jefferson, I will sign it, and, then if 
need be, spend my life to maintain its truth !" 

He raised the draft of the Declaration above 
his head, while his comrades gathered around 
him, and Jefferson shook him by the hand. 

At the same moment, Rose nestling in the 
arms of Franklin, unclosed her eyes, while a 
smile like heaven blushed over her face. Part- 
ing the long hair from her cheek, she gazed 
with dim eyes — shining through their tears — 
upon her lover, and whispered, 
" Arthur ! I was not too late !" 

CHAPTER EIGHTH. 

THE PURPLE CHAMBER, 

The Purple Chamber in the city mansion 
of Reginald, combined in one view all that is 
gorgeous in luxury, delicate in taste, or beautiful 
in art. 

Separated by a wide saloon from the street, 
its four windows looked out upon the trees 
and flowers of an extensive garden. Soft car- 
pets beneath the feet, a wide ceiling, warmed 
with the richest creations of the painter above 
your head — wherever you turned, a white 
statue gleaming in beauty on you — its dark 
rich purple tapestry, whether bathed in moon- 
light, or gilded by the sun, imparted a luxurious 
tone to the chamber of Reginald Landsdowne. 

It was now three o'clock on the morning of 
the Fourth of July. 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



121 



A small lamp stood on yonder marble table, 
placed in front of the mirror, which reached 
from the ceiling to the floor. 

By its light you behold the bed in yonder 
recess, with the white counterpane, seen 
between the intervals of the silken canopy. 
Those curtains agitated by the slight breeze 
that finds entrance, wave in luxurious folds 
from the dome of the canopy to the floor. 

It is three o'clock, and across the threshold 
of the Purple Chamber, there glided two 
youthful forms, one reclining on the other's 
breast and arm. 

As they approach the light we will stand 
here in the shadow and behold them. 

One, a young man, whose dark hair falls 
aside from a countenance marked with the 
traces of much suffering, yet glowing with a 
calm joy on the bold cheek, and shining with 
deep happiness, in the large full eyes. It is 
Arthur, Walter, Reginald, attired still in that 
uniform of green faced with gold. 

Leaning on his arm, her head upon his 
breast, the Rose of Wissahikon raises her eyes 
to his face, and her beautiful hair flowing over 
the hands which gather her to his heart, hides 
in its glossy veil her hunter's dress. 

It was said by a shrewd Philosopher, per- 
haps Dr, Franklin ; certainly one who had 
given much attention to the subject, that the 
most beautiful thing of all that is beautiful, in 
this lower world, was a — beautiful woman. 

I am disposed to improve upon this thought. 
Standing in the shadow of this Purple Chamber, 
I am induced to confess that of all beautiful 
women, the most bewitching is a pure girl at- 
tired in a picturesque hunter's costume, which 
in its turn is only seen by glimpses through 
the intervals of her flowing auburn hair. That 
hair looks brown, and black, and purple by 
turn, and reaches to her knees. 

The words that passed Reginald's lips, as 
treading softly over the threshold, he bore the 
maiden along trie chamber, 'was remarkable. 
" This is our bridal chamber !" 
Strange words these, when you remember 
that Reginald is yet ignorant of the relationship 
of this poor peasant maid to a wealthy planter, 
unconscious of the dear tie which binds her 
to the heart of Martin Landsdowne. He only 
knows that she has saved him ; saved more 
tfian his life, his honor. 



" This is our bridal chamber, Rose !" 

She should have made some eloquent reply, 
expressed surprise at the change in her lover's 
appearance, or suffered an exclamation of 
wonder to pass her peasant lips, she should, 
indeed — 

But she did not. 

Nestling on his breast, in the most natural 
manner in the world, the Rose of Wissahikon 
bloomed beneath his gaze, and felt her lips 
mingle with his. 

And then the air that shook the curtains of 
the window, also shook her long hair, until it 
waved and shone again. 

At this moment, as bending over his bride, 
he pressed his kiss upon her lips, the hangings 
of yonder couch rustled to and fro. Is it with 
the wind 1 

Gaze upon that form emerging from the cur- 
tains, that face, dark with conflicting passions, 
its eyes dazzling with almost fiendish light, 
and answer me ! 

The Lady Marion stood a silent witness of 
this scene of love. 

Her dark hair, which was gathered back 
from her brow in one rich mass, made her pale 
face seem more pale ; her livid lip and breath 
that came and went in gasps ; her small foot 
pressed against the carpet, quivering as it 
peeped from her dark dress, all told the story 
of her passion and her agony. 

Yet the pistol in her extended hand, speaks 
a language plainer still. She raises it, and in 
terrible silence takes deliberate aim, and 
fires ! 

The jarring report crashes through the 
chamber, but cannot drown the sound of that 
form, plunging heavily on the carpet. The 
smoke clouds the sight, but cannot conceal 
that face with the ghastly wound between the 
brows. 

O, it is not Reginald, in his young manhood, 
nor Rose, in the dewey freshness of her 

beauty The heart grows cold to think 

it. 

As the smoke clears away we behold that 
form. 

There, tossing on the carpet, clutching its 
surface with cramped fingers, pouring blood 
upon its flowers from the hideous wound, 
between the brows ; now writhing until the 
heels touch the back of the head ; now stiffen- 



122 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776, 



ing out like a rhing o" marlTe, an oIJ man 
struggles with death. 

On one side, pale, aghast, at her own work, 
looking if possible more livid, the Lady Marion 
stands with her hands dropped by her side. 

Opposite, Rose clings to Reginald's neck, 
glancing over her shoulder, at the hideous 
struggles of the dying man. 

One word bursts from every lip — 

"Michael !" 

Yes, it is the old hermit of the woods ; he 
stood upon the threshold ; he saw the levelled 
pistol ; he saved the life of Rose, the child of 
the murdered woman, whom he once so madly 
loved. 

You may be sure that his struggles were 
horrible but brief. That wound had went 
straight to the altar of life, and dashed its light 
into darkness. 

He raised himself upon his knees, clasped 
his cramped hands, and with the blood pouring 
over his glassy eyes, gasped two brief words 
with his last breath : 

" Your oath !" 

Yes, even in that moment he cared for the 
honor of Rose. Yes, Reginald, your oath, 
uttered in the deep woods in the evening hour! 
Now answer with a true heart, or shrink, a 
cringing perjurer, before the last look of the 
dying man. 

" She is my wife !" he said, and the old 
man sank slowly down, and moved no more. 

He died without knowing that his brother 
lived. And yet that brother stole across the 
threshold, and bent over his still bleeding form, 
unlil his white hairs mingled with the blood, 
flowing from the fatal wound. 

He died ignorant of the existence of that 
brother's son. And yet he was there, there 
beside his sister Rose. He had followed the 
old hunter to the hou^e of President Hancock, 
and on the very threshold, whispered a word 
which directed his steps at once to Reginald's 
house. Following them, joined at the door by 
his father, he had heard the sound of the pis- 
tol, and now beheld the sad result. 

He towered there, the White Indian, gazing 
with impenetrable features on the scene, while 
his very heart was torn within, him. From 
liis broad shoulder drooped the war blanket; 
in his tunic of tiger-skin gleamed the hunting! Peo. 



knife. He grazed upon the mangled form and 
did not weep. 

"I must to my tribe again!" he said — 
" Too much blood here !" 

The emotion of Reginald and Rose need not 
be told. Read it in his downcast head, in her 
eyes, turned wildly over her shoulder. 

And far back in the Bridal Chamber, lean- 
ing against the Bridal Bed, which she never 
might adorn, a pallid, gibbering thing, her finger 
on her lip, and her unloosened hair falling 
wildly over her face, the Lady Marion rent the 
air with peals of horrible laughter. 
She was an Idiot. 



CHAPTER NINTH. 

THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 

The mild clear light of a summer day was 
upon the roof and steeple of the old State 
House. 

Beautifully in the beams of that calm hour, 
glowed every point of the massive structure, 
its windows glittering like living gold, its roofs 
with heavy ornaments along the eaves, bathed 
in light, while the steeples stood clearly out, 
against the blue sky. 

It was toward the close of day, when the 
trees in the lawn shook their leaves in the rays 
of the setting sun, while over the city from the 
forest on the west, to the waves of the Dela- 
ware, the mild golden radiance invested the 
roofs in a veil of sunbeams. 

The zenith of the sky, calm as an infant's 
sleep, extended above the scene, a dome of 
clear deep azure, and on the west, over the 
wide sweep of woods, huge masses of whi e 
clouds, piled up in the horizon — their forms of 
snow, contrasted with the green of the foliage, 
the blue of the heaven — slowly rolling apart, 
disclosed the full glory of the setting sun. 

Such a sun had never set for eighteen hun- 
dred years. 

Not that its glorious beams arrest our atten- 
tion alone, nor the many dyes which it flung 
in parting, over roof and tree and sky, alone 
attract our gaze, but because the Day, which 
its setting closed, marked an era in the history 
of Man. 

On that day a Continent in fierce travail for 
its rights, struggled into birth and became a 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



12H 



As evening came on, the crowd which had 
all day Long thronged the arena of the State 
House, and darkened in the open space along 
its front, or gathered in a dense mass, under 
the old trees of the lawn, was swelled by new 
accessions. 

It seemed as if the city had poured its peo- 
ple from their firesides, and sent them thronging 
into the scene. Nor was the crowd merely 
composed of the rich, in their soft apparel, nor 
of the poor in their work-day attire ; but the 
men whose hearts beat for their country, were 
there, and among their ranks, with sidelong 
looks and ominous scowls, glided the creatures 
of the king. 

The women too, were there, some with their 
young faces glowing more beautiful with love 
of country, some with their warm lips curling 
in sneers, as the word " Freedom" whispered 
on the air, and some, with anxious faces, hold- 
ing in their arms those babes, whose fathers 
were absent fighting the battles of their native 
land. They came in silken attire, they came 
in their coarse linsey peasant garb, they came 
in matronly apparel, with a mild light playing 
over their matured brows ; the women of the 
city and the field, forgetting the severe modesty 
of their eex, in the interest of the day, were 
there 

For all day long — from the moment when 
the first beam of light played upon the State 
House steeple, until now, when its last kiss 
lingers there — a rumor had crept through the 
city, and deepened and spread until it filled 
every heart. 

And all day long, without a moment's inter- 
val, the Congress had been holding their secret 
session in the large hall, on the east of the 
main avenue, while the people awaited in 
quivering anxiety the result of their delibera- 
tions. 

As the day wore on, that rumor deepened, 
and now, from lip to lip a word thrills like 
electric fire — "Independence !" 

Let us wander through the crowd, in front 
of the State House, and see the varying pas- 
sions painted on each face, and listen to the 
whispers until we feel our hearts swell with 
the same interest that fills every bosom. Oh, 
the eloquence of those women's faces, the 
stern anxiety of those patriot looks ! 

Hark! A murmur swells through the crowd, 



you see it surging far from the walls of the 
State House, away to the trees, that rise on 
either hand. " There is a sound in yonder 
avenue, the tread of many feet — listen ! that 
murmur, "Congress has closed its session, and 
the work is done !" 

Then from that door, with massive pillars, 
come forth one by one, the members of the 
solemn council. How the smile upon their 
faces flashes through the crowd ! 

First, while other delegates mingle with the 
crowd and answer their hurried questions, a 
gentleman of mild appearance, yet with a bold 
brow and keen eye, comes to the verge of the 
steps, and stretches forth his hands. 

Every eye in the crowd beholds his dark 
attire, relieved by cambric ruffles and lace of 
gold, for the gentleman is one of Boston's 
stout-hearted merchant princes. From lip to 
lip, the murmur runs, "John Hancock, the 
President !" 

And as he stretched forth his left hand, 
holding a parchment in his right, you see 
Franklin standing with uncovered brow, the 
foremost of the group at his back, with the 
sunlight playing on his animated face. That 
form, tall and angular, leaning with one hand 
behind the back, the other raised to the heart* 
against the pillar on the right side of the door, 
while the face, with the eyes sunken beneath 
the downdrawn brows, the' nether lip com- 
pressed, the nerves quivering with an emotion, 
not the less deep because it is scarce percepti- 
ble. 

It is Thomas Jefferson. Never king upon 
his throne, never conqueror on the battle-field, 
felt a deeper joy than thrilled his bosom then ! 
Glorious Prophet of the Rights of Man, how 
my heart beats, as through the mists of seventy- 
one years, I survey you, standing there, against, 
the right pillar of the State House door, with 
the sunshine streaming over your glowing face ! 

Stout-hearted John Adams stands between 
him and Franklin, his face beaming as he rests 
his hand on Jefferson's arm, and converses 
with him, repeating the word which swells 
every heart — Independence ! 

Between the heads of Jefferson and Adams, 
you see the face of Livingston ; while leaning 
against the left pillar, Roger Sherman gazes m 
the scene. 

Hancock stretches forth his hand — 



124 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 



An old soldier, battered with cuts and scars, 
hobbles up to the foot of the steps, and with 
the marks of the Indian wars and Bunker Hill 
upon his face, gasps the words, " Well, Presi- 
dent, is it all right?" 

There is silence in that breathless crowd. 

Every ear in the throng hears his reply, 
spoken in calm, conversational tones, 

" It is ! This day we have signed our 
Declaration of Independence ! To-morrow it 
will be published in the Gazette, and on the 
eighth day of July, proclaimed from the State 
House steps. From this day there are no 
Colonies, but States. From this day there 
is no British dominion, but the Republic of the 
United States of America '." 

Did you ever see a bolt of lightning stream 
in one red mass from the zenith, and then scat- 
ter in a thousand rays of fire, over the tree-tops 
of an undulating wood ? 

So these words rush into every heart, and 
burst upon the crowd, scattering their rays in 
every heart. 

The crowd is terribly still for a moment, and 
then the murmur swells into a shout. 

At this moment, a little boy, whose golden 
hair tosses about his rosy cheeks, steals up the 
steps and clutches the President by the knee, 
and whispers — " The old man in the steeple 
sent me down to ask you whether he should 
ring the bell ? Shall I say ring?" 

Hancock pressed his hands upon the head 
of the child, and said — "You will live to see 
the day, my child, when the voice of that bell 
will have been heard by all the world ! Tell 
the old man to ring !" 

Through the crowd, brave boy ! Out into 
the street, and clap your tiny hands until the 
old man in yonder steeple hears you. Look ! 
with his bronzed face and snow white hair, he 
bends from the steeple, he sees that child, with 
flushed cheeks and golden hair, clap his hands, 
he hears that boyish shout — "Ring!" 

Then the old man bared his arm, and the 
bell on which was written — "Proclaim Lib- 
erty TO THE LAND, AND ALL THE INHABITANTS 

thereof," spoke to the city, to the People, to 
a world in chains. 

As the tones of that bell go swinging over 
tlie city, let us look upon the strange tumultu- 
ous panorama in front of the State House, 
now known forever as Independence Hall. 



It is a picture, or rather a combination of 
pictures, worthy of the artist's pencil, but 
which requires the pen of Jefferson or the 
voice of Patrick Henry to describe. 

It resolves itself into three prominent points 
of view. 

First, the group on the left of the hall door. 

An Indian stands with his back towards us, 
in the act of stepping toward a group whom 
he surveys, his rich blanket, revealing the bold 
outline of his right shoulder, and drooping in 
rainbow hues to the ground. His face — but 
partly seen in its marked profile, is turned 
slightly to the left, while over his brow waves „ 
the plume of snowy feathers, and down to his 
shoulders streams that mass of straight black 
hair. 

The group on which he gazes ! 

Do you see that young man, attired in a 
rich dark dress, bending with uncovered brow, 
before a beautiful girl, who clings to the arm 
of an aged man ? Her young face blooming 
with the fullness of life and love, is surmounted 
by a slight bonnet that crowns her flowing 
hair ; her beautiful neck and white shoulders, 
and a glimpse of her virgin bosom, glow in the 
light of the fading day. Her form is clad in a 
flowing dress of plain white, that waves from 
the bosom to the feet, while the arm, around 
whose half-bared outlines flutters a silken 
shawl, points to the President's form, as it 
rises above the crowd, in front of those massive 
pillars. 

The light which blazes from the young 
man's eye is reflected in the joyous sunshine 
of her face. 

That look, flashing from face to face, tells 
the whole story. 

" This is better" — exclaimed the Rose of 
Wissahikon — "much better than last night!" 

" To you," cried Reginald, with the blood 
rising to his face ; " to you, I owe the share 
which I have taken in the glorious deed of this 
day. If the name of Reginald Lansdowne, 
of St. Leonard's, goes down to posterity as a 
'Signer of the Declaration,' the merit of his 
fame belongs to the — Rose of Wissahikon!" 

And while the noble Indian contemplates 
with calm satisfaction this group — his sister, 
his father, and the husband of that sister — 
i look yonder, over the shoulder of Reginald, 
I and see that face, lowering with malignant 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



125 



passions, livid with crushed hopes, the clenched 
hand raised to the chin, the cold, (lead eye, 
turning from these glowing faces with hatred 
and fury. 

Itis Gerald Moynton, the brother of the Idiot 
Woman, Lady Marion ; the minion of the 
King. 

The second point of interest, in fact the 
centre of the picture, directly in front of the 
Slate House door 

Three figures, standing in a group, and 
talking earnestly of the great Declaration. 
One, with his back to the Indian, his bold 
profile turned towards us, his hand pressed to 
his side, grasping a paper, with a book beneath 
his arm. A long brown coat reaches to his 
knees. You see, in the outlines of his face, 
the stamp of a strong genius. The dark eye 
flashes a fire which kings have felt, and trem- 
bled for their thrones. There is a mocking 
scorn upon his lip, which has made the tools 
of power writhe more than once. Altogether, 
his attitude, his face, impress us with a deep 
interest in this man. ■ 

Thomas Paine, the author-hero of the 
Revolution ! 

That book beneath his arm, "Common 
Sense," produced the " Declaration," a rude 
draft of which he grasps in his hand.* 

With that full, large eye, flashing with the 
consciousness of genius, he surveys the form 
of Robert Morris, who stands opposite, holding 
hat and cane in one hand, while he extends 
the other to Benjamin Rush, and congratulates 
him on the fulfilment of the great work. 

"This is a great day'" he said — this 
patriot without a stain — this banker without 
a fault. 

" Yes, a glorious day !" You see Rush, in 
the earnestness of his thoughts, raise the left 
hand, grasping his cane, while his calm face 
glows, and his eyes fixed on the air, seem 
glancirg into the future •' The children of 
unborn time will behold its perfect work. It 
is to you, Paine, we owe it ! The book which 
you first suggested to me — which I besought 
you to write — which you wrote and scattered 
to the world, startled the country into thought, 



* By the united testimony of Washington, Jefferson, 
Franklin, Ramsay, Rush, and Barlow, the vital agency 
of Paine, in this great work, is affirmed. 



and wrote 'Independence' in every honest 
heart." 

As we survey these three men, their faces 
warmed by the same glow, let us remember 
the manner in which they died. Paine — 
having forsaken that Bible, from which he 
gleaned the truths of " Common Sense" — died 
a miserable and heart-broken man. Morris, 
whose financial genius saved his country in 
her darkest hour, died in a common jail, to 
which the holy law of " imprisonment for debt" 
— ■ which yet obtains in same savage com- 
munities — consigned him. Rush alone, calm 
and serene, rich in the fame of science and 
humanity, died in his home. 

Passing this group, we come to the third 
point of interest. A confused crowd, stretch- 
ing away under the shade of these trees, mov- 
ing to and fro, gesticulating earnestly, as they 
oon versed on the great topic of the hour. Here, 
a fiery patriot rises his arm, as if to strike a 
calm-faced Tory, who doubts the expediency 
of the means. 

" It is not yet time, thee sees, my friend." 

" Time ! Zounds, sir, it never will be time, 
so long as we permit traitors like you to prowl 
the streets !" 

Thus strolling through the crowd, we may 
see every variety of expression — every 
change of countenance ; the hearts of men 
glow in their faces — speak not only in their 
words, but in the upraised arm and significant 
finger. 

And, all the while, that group upon the steps 
rises above the crowd, the object of every eye, 
their faces revealed by the light which flashes 
from the west ; Hancock, the President, fore- 
most in the group, while Jefferson leans against 
the pillar, and the compatriots cluster round. 

And all the while, with a peal and a clang, 
the bell spoke out, saying to the kings on their 
thrones — and, of all kings, to the weak and 
wicked George of England — " Doom ! doom ! 
doom !" 

Then changing its peal, it spoke to man, 
whether in workshop or the mine — whether 
toiling in the field or bleeding in the battle, and 
the word, that it said, as the sun went down, 
was still — " Dawn ! dawn ! dawn !" 

Doom to kings — the night of death ! Dawn 
to man — the day-break of freedom ! 

Thus, as the sun went down, the glorious 



120 



THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 



Liberty -bell rang at once a curse and blessing 
on the solemn close of the Fourth of July. 



President Hancock advanced through the 
crowd, and confronted the White Indian, as he 
towered in the pride of his forest stature. 

"I have heard your story. How, stolen 
when a child from the ruined home of your 
father, you were reared at once by the Indians, 
an Indian like themselves ; and, by an Ameri- 
can colonist who had forsaken society for the 
turmoil of savage life, in all the knowledge of 
the white race. I know your heart ! You 
would serve your country — serve Washing- 
ton?" 

"Wayaniko lives but to serve the great 
chief!" said the White Indian, as he stood in 
the presence of his father, Reginald, and the 
Rose of Wissahikon. " Speak the word, and 
it is done !" 

" Will you ride an hundred miles or more 
to-night ? Take this parchment," and he drew 
near the Indian, and whispered a few words 
— " The horse stands ready for you across the 
river, in Cooper's woods. To-night," he said 
aloud, "you must seek the camp of Washing- 
ton !" 

At once gathering his blanket about his form, 
the Indian turned, and, with the parchment to 
his breast, without a word of farewell to father 
or sister, hurried to the river side. 

" Now," said Reginald as he took Rose, in 
all her beauty, from her father's arm — " Now, 
we must away to the home that wooes us with 
its smile, the Cottage Home of Wissahikon !" 

CHAPTER TENTH 

THE MESSENGER OF FREEDOM. 

Upon the river a boat glided like an arrow 
toward the eastern shore, while the last flush 
of day is in the sky — the last smile of light 
on the waters. 

In that boat, you see the form of Wayaniko, 
wielding the oar that hisses through the waves, 
as he fixes his eye on the distant woods. 
Away, away — the sunlight's last gleam upon 
your face, brave Indian! Away, away — 
with the sacred parchment near your heart! 
A way, away — for you have a hundred miles 
to ride, ere the rising of the morrow's sun. 



" To the Camp — to the Camp of Washing- 
ton !" 

The boat glides into that quiet cove, over- 
hung with boughs and flowers. Not a moment 
passes ere his foot is on the shore. He leaves 
the boat, and hurries into the wood. There 
a magnificent white horse, arrayed in splendid 
caparisons, awaits him. At once the Indian 
unbuckles the splendid saddle, dashes it on the 
ground, and, with his blanket waving all around 
him, leaps on the bare back of the. steed. 

He threads the mazes of the wood, and, 
just" as the night comes down, emerges on the 
public road. Some farmers, returning from 
their daily toil, behold that white horse and 
his Indian rider dashing toward them, and 
shrink back amazed. 

" The camp of Washington ? " cried the In- 
dian, bending over the neck of his horse. 

They point the way, and he is gone 

The night comes down — the stars flash 
out — and still he hurries on. The steed 
seems to feel its precious burden -—seems to 
know that it bears a warrior form and a sacred 
parchment, and, with its eye gleaming through 
the night, thunders away. 

One hundred miles before the rising of the 
sun — ten miles an hour, with scarce a mo- 
ment's rest — a second's delay! A brave 
thing to do, gallant war-horse ; and a deed that 
will cost you your life. 

Now, in the shadows of a glen — now on 
the ascent of a hill — now in sight of the broad 
river, with its opposite bank lined with gardens 
and flowers. 

Still the Indian hurries on ! 

The only word that he speaks, as he rushes 
into the view of the belated wayfarer is — The 
Camp, the Camp of Washington ! The only 
way in which his dark eye gazes, is to the 
north, for there they say it lies, there miles on 
miles away, the Camp of Washington ! 

At last, in the old town of Trenton — which 
six months afterward became the scene of 
Washington's last hope — he reins the white 
steed, surrounded by a crowd who hurry from 
their doors with torches in their hands. They 
gaze in wonder upon the panting horse ; this 
tall ridei% with his straight dark hair, lined 
with a coronal of snow-white feathers, and the 
blanket of many colors floating from his shoul- 
ders. 



OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 



127 



You may see them stand in the street, cir- 
cling round Wayaniko, the lights above their 
heads, the dark town all around. 

"The way," he cries — "the way to the 
camp of Washington ?" 

He sees their extended hands; that space in 
the street is vacant ; far through the night 
clatters the sound of hoofs, and gleams the 
vision of the white steed and his Indian rider. 

The moon rises, the hours glide, Princeton 
and Brunswick are passed. The Raritan 
gleams far behind in the light of the moon. 
The road rises over rocks and hills, then the 
Indian messenger is lost in the bosom of thick 
woods. Still the brave horse, urged to his ut- 
most speed, bathed all over with foam, bounds 
from the earth and skims along. 

The moon rises! Slowly up yonder hill, 
rugged with crags, dark with pines, the white 
horse toils along, his master's blanket fluttering 
down his flanks. Not once is that Indian's 
face turned back; still his dark eye to the 
north, still he looks for the camp of Washing- 
ton. 

The moon rises ! A flying cloud over- 
spreads it with a vsM. Down into the hollow 
where the brook boils beneath the trembling 
bridge ; down into the stream with the cool 
water flowing around the limbs of the panting 
steed. For a moment he pauses, suffers the 
horse to wet his nostrils and his mouth in the 
grateful current, and then presses his flanks 
with his knee and bids him on ! 

As the cloud rolls from the moon, do you see 
that wide meadow, its sea of grass waving in 
the clear light, with the white horse dashing 
over its surface, while the Indian towers erect 
on his back, the war blanket fluttering far be- 
hind him. 

The moon sinks from her throne in the ze- 
nith. Down through the clouds that float 
about her, down through the blue vault until 
her horizontal rays tremble faintly over the 
wide expanse of hills and valleys. 

Along the dark wood where log huts rise 
among the pines, the white horse thunders 
now. Panting, foaming, his mane waving in 
the cool breeze, he gtydes along, while the 
blood begins to mingle with the froth around 
his nostrils. 

Look! A crowd of dark forms overspread 



the road ; you see their rifles rise, their knives 
gleam. Tories in the garb of soldiers ; their 
challenge rings out upon the night. 
" Who goes there ? " 

But the white Indian does not reply. Hark ! 
the crack of rifles ; a cloud of smoke rolls 
round his form. He does not look behind, 
nor turn to either side; the bullet giazes the 
tiger skin about his breast, but the sacred 
parchment is safe. He dashes on, while the 
Tories, gazing upon ■ his retreating form, heai 
the deep words — " The Camp of Washington !" 

The moon goes down. Pale and dim, her 
disc, half seen, trembles over the distant woods, 
before it sinks to darkness. The night grows 
dark. We have lost sight of Wayaniko; ah 
the horse has fallen, the rider pants exhausted 
by the roadside ! Is it so ? 

Look yonder through this gloom that ga- 
thers so dark before the break of day, a id fix 
your eyes upon the summit of that steep hill. 
On one side a wood — you see it extend, a 
darkening mass. On the other a level field, 
overspread with waving wheat. A rude hut 
built among the trees, gives forth from its win- 
dow a glare of light. The plain cottager has 
risen ; he is about to begin his day's toil. 
He comes forth and stands before his home, a 
brawny man, with a coarse dress on his 
broad chest, the marks of toil upon his face. 

But what sight is this that meets his eyes in 
the dimness of the daybreak hour ? 

Writhing in the roadside bank, his nostrils 
flooding the dust with blood, a noble white 
horse stretches out his limbs, raises his he.id, 
quivers along his flanks, and then is still. 

Over him stands a form, which fills the 
rough laborer with awe. Into the hut he 
passes, returns with a light, shading its rays with 
the palm of his hand, he approaches, and be- 
holds an Indian standing with folded arms be- 
side the dying horse. The heart of a noble 
beast has burst — look ! how its warm blood 
pours in a torrent over the road. 

The Indian stands with folded arms, his 
head sunken and his eyes fixed upon the 
steed. As the cottager surveys that form, 
with the war blanket drooping from the shoul- 
ders, the coronal of feathers waving over the 
dark hair, he starts back with awe. 

For the last time the dying horse lifts his 



128 THE FOURTH 

head and fixes his eye upon his master's form. 
Then all is over ; he lays there dead. 

The Indian turns 

" The Camp of Washington ?*' he cries, 
with a voice that makes the cottager start. 

" Look yonder!" exclaims the laborer, as 
the wind extinguishes his light. 

There, from the summit of the hill, the 
Indian looks and sees, a wide expanse of 
waters heaving in the dim light of the day- 
break sky — a black mass, like a wall of ebony, 
extending along the distant horizon. 

That expanse of waters, the waves of 
Manhattan Bay — that wall of ebony the City 
of New York. 

"A boat ? A canoe ?" 

"There aint none within three miles" — 
hesitates the cottager. 

At once the resolution of the Indian is 
taken ; at once he flings the blanket from his 
shoulders, the tiger-skin from his breast, and 
stands there naked to the waist, disclosing a 
form, magnificent in its broad chest and boldly 
defined muscles. He winds the parchment in 
the locks of his long straight hair; secures it 
with a cord ; and while the plume waves over 
his brow, hurries to the river. 

A footstep on the sand, a sudden plunge 

Long before the threshold of his home, stood 
the cottager, watching that white plume gleam- 
ing from the blackness of the waves. 

Through the shadows of a spacious chamber, 
struggled the rays of a taper, its waning light 
imparting a deeper gloom to the massive furni- 
ture, the cumbrous hangings and the curtained 
bed. 

A man of some forty-five years, whose 
muscular limbs were clad in a long dark 
dressing gown, had sunk to sleep in an arm- 
chair, after many weary hours of labor. His 



OF JULY, 1776. 

hand resting on the table, still grasped the pen, 
which marked the unfinished sentence of his 
letter. By that hand a sheathed sword; over 
that table a mass of papers, bearing the name 
of great men and involving the fate of a nation. 

j\_nd as this tired soldier slept, the light 
flickered lower in the socket, and the first 
gleam of day came through the parted curtains. 

Suddenly a cry was heard, a tramp of a 
footstep ! At. the very instant the soldier awoke 
from his sleep, started to his feet, and listened. 
That footstep grew nearer, the door was flung 
open, a strange form stood on the threshold, 
bared to the waist, and dripping from the dark 
hair to the moccasioned feet with spray. 

Yes it was a noble form, with bold features, 
and large eyes that now rolled wildly in their 
sockets. Over the brow of this strange 
apparition, waved a coronal of snow-white 
plumes. 

The soldier started with surprise, and 
pressed his hands over his eyes, as though he 
be held the vision of a dream. 

But the figure tottered forward, tore a parch- 
ment from the locks of his dark hair, and as 
he held it aloft, fell like a dead man to the floor. 

The soldier bent down and grasped the 
parchment, and hurrying to the window, un- 
closed it before the first beam of the rising day. 

By that beam of morning light, George 
Washington, with a quickening pulse and 
kindling eye, perused the Declaration of In- 
dependence. 

And the same dawn that shone on his 

brow, shone through the cottage home by the 
still waters, on the sleeping form of the bride 
whose lips parted in a smile, as in a dream, 
she saw the dangers that had passed, the trials 
that had once darkened her life — 

The Rose of Wissahikon. 



LEGEND FOURTEENTH. 



HERBERT TRACY 

OB 

THE LEGEND OE THE BLACK RANGERS '. 

A LEGEND OF "WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN" AT THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 



(129) 



THE SCENE OF THE ROMANCE. 



The incidents of the battle of the fourth of Octo- 
ber, 1777, the evolutions of the opposing armies, the 
characteristics of the American partizan chief com- 
pared with the British officer, the manner of the fight 
of Germantown, the scene, the people, and the actors, 
the self devotion of Washington, the daring feate of his 
compatriots — furnish the foundation, if not the super- 
structure of this Romance of Revolutionary History. 

To those who know nothing about the matter, it 
may seem a very easy task, to mould a correct and 
graphic history of a battle-field of the Revolution, from 
the rough block of history, marred by paradoxes and 
disfigured by contradictions. Yet those who have trod- 
den the path of revolutionary romance, which is now 
essayed by the author, will emphatically corroborate 
one important fact, which the reader will do well to 
remember — that the history of all our battle-fields is 
shadowed by mystery and darkened by doubt; that 
that there are innumerable contradictory narratives of a 
single event, that even the actors in the scenes of the 
American Revolution, have told varying stories of the 
great battles of the " eight years' war," described them 
in a conflicting manner, and in some instances covered 
the whole subject with darkness and obscurity. 

With all these difficulties to encounter, the author 
has constructed the work now presented to the public. 
Tt is important for the reader to bear one prominent 
fact in remembrance. Thi work is not offered for 
perusal merely as an idle romance, but as a dramatic 
and legendary history jf the battle, prepared from the 
details of various accredited written histories, the nar- 
ratives of survivors of the field, as well as the thou- 



sand wild legends of the fight of Germantown, current 
in the vicinity of the battle-field. 

It may not be impertinent to remark in this place 
that the first edition of this romance, was received, 
when published in six periodical numbers, in a standard 
journal, {the Saturday Evening Post) with popular 
favor as signal as it was unexpected. Extensively 
copied, it was returned to the author from all quarters 
of the Union, transferred into the columns of some of 
the most noted journals of the land. 

This mark of popular favor induced a Philadelphia 
Publisher to offer the work to the public in a more sub- 
stantial shape. It was published in book form in the 
spring of 1844. The edition has long since been ex- 
hausted. 

It may be remarked that the work was mangled into 
Dramatic shape, by some adroit hireling of the Stage, 
and played upon the boards of the Philadelphia and 
New York Theatres, as an "entirely original Drama? 

— In the work entitled "The Fourth of July, 1776, 
or the Rose of Wissahikon," the reader surveyed the 
scenes of the Revolution, which took place in Philadel- 
phia, and on the Wissahikon, in the year of the Decla- 
ration of Independence. 

In Herbert Tract, or the Legend of the Black 
Rangers, we once more take up the scenes of the Re- 
volution. The scene of the story is again laid on the 
Wissahikon, and its main incident is the battle of Ger- 
mantown. Thus, in one work, we trace the origin of 
the Declaration, and in the other, behold the sacrifice 
of blood, which was offered on the field of German- 
town, in witness of its truth. 



(131) 



HERBERT TRACY, 



OR, 



THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS: 

A ROMANCE OF THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
BY GEORGE LIPPARD- 



CHAPTER FIRST. 

THE QUAKER AND HIS DAME. 

" These be troublous times, dame — these 
be troublous times," said the Quaker as he 
took his pipe from his mouth, and drew 
his chair nearer to the cheerful flame which 
blazed upon the hearth. " The October night 
is cool — and verily, the fire is comfortable. 
I mind me not of a season, when the month 
opened with such a nipping frost — and yet 
the woods of the quiet Wissahikon are scarce 
faded by it. These are troublous times — 
does thee not think so, Hannah ?" 

" Yes, Joab," replied the Quaker dame, 
smoothing a crease out of her apron with her 
hand : " I do think that the times are full of 
trouble. What with the men of war, with 
their flaunting red dresses, with their war 
horses, their cymbals and their drums, their 
cannons and their weapons of war ; our quiet 
home on the Wissahikon, is a quiet home no 
longer. But as the Lord wills it, so let it be !" 

The Quaker farmer took his pipe from his 
mouth, sent a volume of tobacco-smoke rolling 
to the rafters of the apartment, and then with 
a distinct " hem*' resumed his meditative lux- 
ury again. 

" Verily, Joab, there is not a window of our 
habitation, from which we may look, without 
6eeino- the tents of these men of strife. Well 
do I remember the time when first thee took 
me to be thy wedded wife ; then thee was 
used to go peacefully to the field, to thy labor 
in the morning, and I could bake my bread, 
and scour my pewter in quietness, without a 
great big, idle fellow of a soldier, popping into 
our tenement, and taking what he pleased for 
nis own, and looking at our daughter Marjorie 
9 



as though he meant no good. Well do I 
mind me of the time — but was thee not over 
to Germantown this afternoon, Joab ?" The 
Quaker nodded assent. " Did thee hear any- 
thing new of the man Cornwallis, or aught of 
George Washington ?" 

" I found the village people much affrighted. 
Some were removing their worldly goods, 
some were talking loudly and calling their 
neighbors 'Whig' and ' Tory,' and all were 
running to and fro, in great confusion and bus- 
tle. I asked what all this meant — and verily 
the village people answered, that the man 
Cornwallis, who has posted his scarlet men 
across the village, near the mansion of friend 
Chew, to the Delaware on one side, and through 
our quiet woods along to the Wissahikon on 
the other, did purpose some mischief to the 
men of friend Washington. But I couldn't 
get head nor tail of the story. But of a cer- 
tainty shall we have trouble shortly, Hannah." 

" I fear thee speakest that which shall come 
to pass, Joab," replied the dame, and then 
both farmer and his wife appeared to give 
themselves up to the melancholy contempla- 
tion of the evils predicted. The whole scene 
was one of Pennsylvania's olden time. The 
light of the hickory fire, flickering around the 
apartment, showing the substantial forms of 
the Quaker and his dame, in bold relief, and 
mingling with the beams of the setting sun, 
which streamed through the deep silled win- 
dow ; the massive rafters which formed the 
ceiling of the spacious room ; the snow-white 
walls and neatly sanded floor ; the oaken table 
in one corner ; the shelves heavy with masses 
of burnished pewter, — all were characteristic 
of that quiet, domestic life, so rarely discovered 

(133) 



134 



HERBERT TRACY, 



in any place, save under the green trees and 
pleasant shade of the country. 

The farmer was in the prime of vigorous 
manhood, with features of massive solidity, a 
broad and low forehead, a short, square nose, 
a wide mouth with thin lips, prominent chin, 
high cheek bones and a dark grey sparkling 
eye ; and with a frame of great muscukr 
power, long and sinewy arms, and prominent 
:hest whose ample developement his Quaker 
garb, with all its volume, and want of shape, 
could not altogether conceal. You would have 
picked him out in a crowd, as the man to head 
a charge of dragoons, rather than suppose him 
ihe quiet Friend, whose theory and practice 
:alike shunned the noise and bustle of war. 

His dame was full and portly in figure, with 
;a calm, placid face, and light blue eyes, expres- 
sive of a mild and domestic disposition. Her 
hair was half concealed, by the plain cap of the 
Quaker sect, and her gown was modelled with 
the invariable simplicity of hue and shape, pe- 
culiar to the sisters of the peace-loving and 
form-shunning society. 

" In truth, Hannah," exclaimed Joab after a 
pause, as laying down his pipe, and extending 
his hands to receive the cheerful warmth of the 
•flame, he gazed with a complacent glance 
around the spacious arch of the fire-place. 
" In truth, Hannah, we have fallen upon evil 
times. The sword of war hangs over the 
land, the dust of the highways is laid with the 
blood of our neighbors and worldy friends, and 
the quiet streams run crimson, with the butch- 
ery of the men of strife. This war parts fa- 
ther and son, husband and wife, mother and 
child." 

"Yes," responded Hannah, from the other 
?ide of the fire-place. " There is the rich 
Englishman Tracy, whose mansion is pitched 
on the rock that looks down into the vale of 
ihe Wissahikon, beyond the bend 'tother side 
of Rittenhouse's Mill — did he not cast his son 
from him as though he were unworthy of all 
fatherly love and affection, because he favored 
the men of George Washington ? Marry, 
Joab, I often wonder what has become of the 
poor youth, who hath his father's curse upon 
him?" 

" I learned 'tother day, from some friends of 
Washington, that Herbert Tracy, that delicately 



reared youth, joined the Continentals last win- 
ter, with a number of his father's tenants ; and 
I likewise learned that he endured the biting 
cold as bravely, and slept on the bare earth as 
cheerfully, as the humblest of Washington's 
people. The son of our neighbor — Henry 
Heft, commonly called Harry Heft, was with 
the young man Tracy." 

The last sentence was uttered by the Qua 
ker, with a covert glance at the countenance of 
his dame, as though he expected the name of 
the young farmer to excite some interest in her 
mind. He was not disappointed, for the Qua- 
keress gave a quick, nervous start, and ex 
claimed, with the rapid and hurried manner 
peculiar to the keenest anxiety — "Joab, what 
didst thee hear of the young man Heft ? Surely 
he has met with no harm ? He was a good 
youth, albeit somewhat wild. Why did thee 
not tell me of this sooner ? I should be sorrv 
where harm to come to him, for, for — " 

" For he hath made offers of marriage to 
our daughter Marjorie, thee would say ? Nay, 
nay, dame, were he alive and well, standing at 
this moment before me, he might not unite his 
lot with our child. There was a time when 
I had hope of the boy, when I thought he 
would be one of us and assume the peaceful 
garb of the Friends — but no sooner did young 
Tracy go to the wars, than Harry must bfe ofT 
also, and fight, and cut and thrust, I warrant 
thee, with the worst of them. Nay, nay, 
Hannah — " 

" Well, if it must be so, it must. I fear 
thee speakest truth. But in verity it is pain- 
ful to think how much trouble and strife 
among kindred and friends, this dreadful war 
hath caused. There was the daughter of old 
Waltham, whose country seat is on the Ridge 
Road near the falls of Schuylkill ; he is rich, 
and full of worldly goods thee knowest Joab : 
she, the maiden his daughter, was to be mar- 
ried to young Tracy, when the quarrel occurred 
between father and son, and the match was bro- 
ken off. Ah, me ! 'tis a troublous time, for the 
sons of men, Joab." 

But at this moment, as if some unexpected 
thought had ruffled the usual serenity of hia 
mind, the Quaker rose from his seat, and 
walked hurriedly to the deep silled window of 
the apartment looking to the west, and gazing 



OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 



135 



upon landscape of hill, valley and stream, for a 
moment he seemed lost in thought, or wrapt in 
the mild quietude, that attends the contempla- 
tion of a lovely sunset, to a mind sobered by 
age and experience. 



CHAPTER SECOND. 

THE MAIDEN. 

The view was full of natural beauty. Im- 
mediately in front of the window extended- a 
small flower garden, surrounded by a wicket 
fence, made lovely to the eye by groups of 
wild flowers of every tint and hue, green ar- 
bors, overshadowed by luxuriant vines, trans- 
planted by a fair hand from the glades of the 
forest, and pleasant walks, and winding paths, 
separated from the flower beds by delicate 
lines of greenest grass, while a fair form flit- 
ting from arbor to arbor, might well have 
seemed the divinity of rural paradise. Beyond 
the garden, a sloping pasturage some hundred 
yards in extent, bounded on either side by for- 
est trees, sank down in a gentle descent until 
its verdant turf was laved by the quiet Wissa- 
hikon ; which flowed silently on, from a mass 
of greenwood, along the verge of the meadow, 
under the shade of the trees on the opposite 
bank, until it was lost in the forest of verdure 
which terminated the view to the south. The 
opposite bank of the stream arose in a swelling 
hill, covered with lofty forest trees, the giant- 
trunked oak, the leafy chestnut, and branching 
beech, whose luxuriant foliage, but faintly 
tinged by the bright red, and glaring yellow of 
autumn, was basking in the mellowing light 
of the setting sun, as he hovered with half-con- 
cealed disc upon the brow of the woodlands. 
The sky was clear and serene, with light 
masses of clouds floating in the pathway of the 
sun. The whole western horizon was bathed in 
golden light, while the zenith expanded with 
its intensity of autumnal azure — like the dome 
of this fair temple of nature — far, far above, 
and there was a holy quietude, a twilight so- 
lemnity resting upon that world -hidden vale, 
that appealed to the highest and kindliest feel- 
ings of our nature. 

The view was lovely, the foliage luxuriant, 
the sky serene, the meadow verdant as with 
the first kiss of spring, but neither view, foli- 
age, sky nor pasturage, seemed to attract the 



attention of the farmer by reason of their m ^re 
natural beauties, but rather from some associa- 
tion of memory, which fixed the valley of th** 
Wissahikon as the scene of some well remen 
bered incident of other days. 

Joab gazed for an instant upon this scene, 
and then turning away with a hurried step, 
sought the other window of the apartment, 
which opened a view to the north. There 
were undulating hills and green woodlands 
and brown fields of upturned earth and white 
patches of ripe buckwheat, but upon hill top, 
and gleaming from the foliage of the forest, 
and dotting the russet of the cultivated fields 
with strips of white, extended the tents of the 
British camp, traversing as far as the eye could 
reach, the tract of country between the village 
of Germantown and the river Schuylkill, while 
at short intervals waved the Cross of St. 
George, stained with the best blood of the 
children of the soil ; and the hirelings of power, 
in their gaudy trappings, with their well burn- 
ished arms, were observed moving hither and 
thither along the line of the encampment. 
The view did not by any means seem to 
soothe the mind of the Quaker, into its usual 
quietude. 

"I tell thee, wife, it is in vain — in vain !"' 
he exclaimed again turning to the window look- 
ing out upon the Wissahikon. " I cannot 
stifle the remembrance. I stood here — here 
at this window, and saw him die — and yet I 
had a hand, a strong hand and stout arm, but 
I might not strike. I beheld him die— " 

" Of whom does thee speak, Joab ?" asked 
dame Hannah, amazed at the excited demeanor 
of the staid Quaker. " Methinks thee is won- 
drously flurried, Joab !" 

" Here I beheld him die. The son of ihe 
poor widow over the creek — that poor trum- 
peter boy in the American camp," he con- 
tinued, his manner becoming more excited as 
he proceeded. "-It was just such an evening 
as this, save that it happened in the bloom o*' 
spring. He had won his way through the 
hosts of the enemy — he had heard his mother 
was sick unto death — and he wished if t-he 
was indeed dying to close her eyes. He had 
won his way through the hosts of the enemy, 
he had gained this meadow, when thundering 
at his back came the scarlet men of war on 
their stout horses, with their flashing swords. 



136 HERBER 

tie shrieked for mercy and I heard his shriek, 
but might not, could not save him. He 
shrieked for mercy, and their swords were 
bathed in the warm blood of his heart. He 
was a fair youth, but 'twas a ghastly sight — 
that ruddy cheek crushed in the cold blood; 
those golden locks dyed in crimson red. Ah, 
'twas a fearful sight — and — I — could not 
save him " 

" In verity 'twas a most pitiful sight ! The 
Lord have mercy on his murderers !" 

" I could not — could not save him" — con- 
tinued the Quaker. " But still I beheld him 
die !" He raised his eyes and hands to 
Heaven. "Father of mercy" — he exclaimed 
— " If blood crying from the earth to thee for 
recompense, is ever in thy wisdom avenged, 
surely the account of these scarlet men is 
deeply dyed, and cries for ten fold-vengeance! 
He was but a boy and yet they killed him !" 

" 'Twas a dreadful sight — a doleful sight," 
sobbed Dame Hannah. "In truth a doleful 
sight ! The Lord be good to us, what is that ?" 
she exclaimed, with an outburst of surprise, as 
a loud and piercing shriek arose from the 
garden without, and rang through the farm 
house. 

The Quaker started quickly at the sound, 
but ere he had time to move a step or whisper 
a word, the sound of hurried footsteps was 
neard, the door of the apartment was flung 
hurriedly open, and a girl in the full summer 
of youth, rushed into the room, her dark hair 
floating in masses of jet, down over her neck 
and shoulders, and streaming in unconfined 
luxuriance over her virgin bosom, bared by the 
hand of violence. As she rushed into the 
room, she was followed by a coarse, ruffian- 
like man in the dress of a British dragoon, 
who with a drunken shout, and look of 
imbecile intoxication, had seized on the 'ker- 
chief which veiled her bosom, and while she 
fled to her father's arms, pursued her foot- 
steps. 

" Save me ! — Father — save me ?" cried 
the maiden clinging to the farmer's neck. 

" Come my pretty lassie — don't be afraid" 
— exclaimed the drunken soldier, as he sprang 
across the floor with unsteady steps. "Don't 
be afraid, lassie — don't 

"Come, feller, this is going a little too far" 



T TRACY, 

— exclaimed a strange voice, and a blow from 
behind felled the soldier to the oaken planks 
of the floor. 

It was a good stout blow, and it laid the 
crimson-hued dragoon, as quietly down, as a 
new-born babe. The Quaker who had not 
time to raise a hand in defence of the maiden, 
glanced at the stranger and beheld the form of 
a young man in the prime of early manhood, 
of a strong, muscular and well proportioned 
frame, with a face full of honest intelligence 
of expression, lighted by the gleam of a dare- 
devil eye, and a look beaming with ingenuous 
frankness and manly courage. 

" That's a nice specimen of the terror of 
turkey cocks !" exclaimed the stranger, eye- 
ing the prostrated soldier, with a gaze of quiet 
admiration. " A nice pattern of a scare-crow 
to keep turkey gobblers out of the corn! 
Haint it. uncle Joab ? What d'ye say, aunt 
Hannah? — did ever you see sich a beast?" 

" Harry Heft !" exclaimed the maiden in 
surprise, while her cheek was pale from her 
recent fright. "Harry Heft!" 

" Henry Heft ! And in this warlike guise !" 
exclaimed the farmer, participating in the 
astonishment of his daughter. 

" Why, Henry Heft ! Where did thee 
come from ?" said the dame, in a tone of quiet 
amazement, as her lips parted and her eyes 
distended with surprise. 

The scene would have made a picture. The 
staid Joab, with his daughter resting on his 
right arm, while the other was raised in 
involuntary astonishment ; the fair girl with 
her arms around her father's neck, her dark 
hair falling in disordered tresses over her 
shoulders and down her back, her face, with 
beaming eyes as dark as night, and dimmed 
by tears, turned toward the young soldier, while 
her bared bosom of virgin whiteness, and 
youthful outline, heaved upward in the light, 
and glowed with the warm flush that brightened 
over her face and neck ; the dame slightly in 
the background with hands raised and eyes 
distended ; and the young soldier in the fore- 
ground, unheeding the exclamations of sur- 
prise, but gazing downward, with his sparkling 
brown eyes, fixed in an expression of quiet 
humor, upon the form of the insensible dragoon, 
i laid along the floor, in the careless attitude of 



OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 



137 



helpless intoxication ; all formed a qniet 
picture for the pencil of John Smith, or any 
other artist of similar celebrity. 

" Reely, jist to think of the feller's im- 
pudence !'* excLimed Harry Heft — " a'ter 
I'd travelled fifteen miles, over hill and holler, 
and through the red-coat lines, not at all 
mentionin' my creepin' down the Wissahikon to 
get cleer of the picquets — a'ter all this 
trouble to get a look at Marjorie there, and then 
when I reach the garden gate, to find that feller 
a-chaseing her about the flower beds jist as if 
he'd a right to catch butterflies where he liked !" 

" But where did thee come from, Henry ? 
How did thee git here ? Isn't thee in danger ? 
What does thee want?" where the hurried 
questions asked by the Quaker, who evidently 
knew not what to think of young Heft's 
sudden appearance. 

" That's what I call unrollin' the whole cate- 
chism at once. Now uncle — I call you uncle, 
not because you're my father's brother, but 
because it sounds sociable, (the same to you, 
aunt,) jist set down there while I shut the door. 
There — it's bolted, now let me roll this 
sleepin' scarecrow under the table. Marjorie, 
dear, let me put your 'kerchief round your 
neck. There now — what's the use of blush- 
ing so — didn't I pay the scoundrel for his 
impu'dence ? — Now all of you sit down 'round 
the fire-place, jist as we used to do in old 
times — Marjorie, you sit by me — uncle, you 
sit there, and aunt, you sit there. Now then 
I'll tell you all about it!" 

" Henry, wherefore is thee in this warlike 
guise ? " interrupted the Quaker. 

" That's what I was jist a-going to tell you. 
But howsomever as I've precious little time to 
spare, I'll jist cut a long story short, and let 
you know, that I'm fresh from Geore Wash- 
ington's army — which is not much farther off 
than the Skippack Creek, some sixteen miles 
distance from this farm house. (The Con- 
tinentals may be a little nearer for all you 
know.) I'm on a scouting party — but p'raps 
you don't know what that is ? You do uncle I 
very well." 

" Where did thee go when thee left the 
Wissahikon last winter with young Herbert 
Tracy ?" 

" Why you must know that young Tracy 
raised a company of mounted riflen?sn, from 



round about the country here, with whom he 
joined the Continentals. He mustered some 
fifty good, bold-handed, stout-hearted fellows. 
This is our uniform — black frock coat, or 
rather dark grey — neat little rifle with a ball 
that never fails — short sword — powder horns 
— light boots — cap with the feather of a 
night-hawk in the way of a plume, and that's 
the reason why they call us the night-hawks, 
though our regular name is Captain Tracy's 
Rifles, or the Black Rangers. We fight some- 
times one by one dropped about in spots, and 
most ginerally we slam into the Britishers all 
in a bunch, with our rifles cracking away, our 
plump black horses at the top of their speed, 
and our jolly war-hurrah splitting the air over 
our heads. We've seen hard fighting too — 
plenty of it. Twenty-six of our good band 
left their bones at Brandywine. By the Lord 
above us — " 

" Henry, Henry ! What saith the scrip 
ture? — Take not the name of — " 

" I'm wrong, I know it. But these haint 
no times for men to be pertikler about what 
they say. But to the pint. I came as far as 
Chestnut Hill on a scouting party, and then I 
came on here, through the British lines, partly 
to see you- folks here — partly to see my people 
over the creek, but more 'specially to recon- 
noitre round the mansion of our captain's 
father, jist below the Paper Mill Run. Cap- 
tain Tracy thinks there's some mischief a 
brewing, and so I'll jist take a bit of something 
to eat if you please, and be off. What's that 
red-coat grumbling there about? He is the 
drunkenest — " 

"If I mistake not," interrupted Joab, "he 
is the servant of a young British officer, who 
with Colonel Musgrave is at present staying 
at Mr. Tracy's down the Wissahikon." 

" Hey, uncle ! You don't say so ! Then 
there's mischief brewin' indeed — Colonel 
Musgrave and old Tracy have always been as 
thick as thieves. It's my opinion that the 
captain's father is going to marry that British- 
er's nephew of his to young Miss Waltham, 
who was betrothed to our captain before he 
joined the Continentals." 

" Who is the nephew ? I never heard him 
spoken of before, Henry." 

" Why, his name is Wellwood Tracy — 
he's a Britisher born, and he's a leftenant 



133 



HERBERT TRACY, 



among the red-coats. Old Tracy says that he 
shall inherit his estate when he dies. There's 
a father for you, to cist off his natural born 
son — but what's that fellow grumbling about?" 

" This way, this way," muttered the intoxi- 
cated dragoon, raising himself from the resting 
place under the table and gazing around with 
a vacant stare, which showed that his thoughts 
were not at all connected with the scene before 
him. "This way- — parson — it isn't far. 
Two miles only along the Wissahikon. You 
know where old Tracy lives ? They're to be 
married at eight o'clock — fine fun — plenty 
of drink — the leftenant's a glorious fellow. 
Hurrah — at 'em." And tben the drunken 
soldier performed various imaginary feats, rode 
over imaginary regiments of Continentals, 
emptied imaginary bottles, and sang very 
peculiar songs, from a pocket volume of his 
own selection. 

" Very well, my feller — very well, '" ex- 
claimed Harry Heft, looking complacently at 
the muttering soldier. " Very well — that's 
jist what I wanted to know. See here, Marjo- 
rie." 

Drawing the blushing girl apart, Harry 
whispered in her ear, in a low voice, words 
which gave a brighter sparkle to her dark 
black eyes, and brought a livelier blush upon 
her budding cheek. 

" What d'ye think o' the plan, Marjorie ?" 

"Verily," replied the damsel, "verily, 
Harry, I think," she continued hesitatingly. 
" That is I like it very well, but, — but," the 
rest of her reply was lost in a whisper. 

" Henry, what did thee say to our daugh- 
ter ?" exclaimed the sedate Quaker. " Really, 
it seemeth to me — " 

" Never mind, uncle — nothing wrong — 
nothing wrong. Hist ! there is the signal of 
my comrade down in the hollow. I must be 
off, but I'll not say good bye, for dead or 
alive, you'll hear from me soon. Now for old 
Tracy and old Waltham !" 

As he said this the young Ranger seized his 
rifle from the fire-place and rushed out of the 
room, as a clear shrill whistle was heard with- 
out, leaving the black-eyed Marjorie to explain 
*he purport of those whispered words as best, 
she might 

The plan of my story makes it necessary to 
;;icture to the reader two distinct scenes or in- j 



cidents which occurred on the same evening of 
the commencement of the tale, at the hour of 
sunset in the country around the village of 
Germantown. Now for the first incident. 

CHAPTER THIRD. 
THE BLACK RANGERS. 

As the last gleam of sunset glanced through 
the foliage of a long line of towering elm and 
chestnut trees, whose luxuriant verdure 
marked the course of a winding bye road, 
some three miles north of Chestnut Hill, a 
party of soldiers were pursuing their way, un- 
der the interlacing boughs, that made a pasto- 
ral arcade of the serpentine line, and shielded 
their path and persons from any intrusive ob- 
server. 

The soldierss, numbering twenty-five in all, 
were mounted each on a stout and well-limbed 
steed, black in hue, with flowing tail and 
mane. Their tall and sinewy forms were clad 
in a costume which, peculiar to their body, 
would have marked them out for observation 
amid the gaudy trappings of an army. They 
wore Mack coats, reaching to the knee, and 
fitting closely over their prominent and muscu- 
lar chests, and varied in appearance by a bor- 
der of black fur around the skirt of the gar- 
ment, with a plain line of braiding running up 
in front, until it was terminated by the simple 
upright collar, buttoning closely round the 
neck. A belt of dark leather, from which de- 
pended a powder horn, was slung across the 
breast; another belt of similar material girdled 
the waist, supporting the scabbard of a short 
straight sword ; while a glittering hunting 
knife, with handle of the wild deer's antlers, 
depended from the right side ; and a small 
rifle, with barrel of elegant finish and stock oi 
mahogany, varied by ornaments of silver, hung 
at the saddle-bow of each soldier. Each 
mounted rifleman wore a small circular fur cap, 
with a feather of the night-hawk, drooping to 
the left side, in the way of a plume. Then- 
legs were encased as far as the knees, in well 
fitting black boots, displaying the manly pro- 
portions of each muscular leg, the bend below 
the knee, the prominent calf and slopingankle, 
to every advantage. 

Every man of the party was tall, broad 
chested, and well proportioned, and every one 



OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 



139 



bore upon his rugged features, the marks of the 
bayonet thrust, the sword cut, and the bullet 
wound. They were such men as would have 
delighted the heart of a crusading knight of the 
thirteenth century, with all the wild love of ad- 
venture — nil the daring courage, and all the 
frank, hardy qualities which mark the soldier, 
who — as the old writer phrases it — "fights 
for his own hand" independent of the numbers 
and discipline of a regular army. And then 
they sat their steeds so well, so gallantly ; 
each ranger riding firm and erect, adapting his 
limbs to the movement of his horse, and gui- 
ding him without having any recourse to the 
bridle. 

It would have been no easy matter to have 
picked men of such form, strength, and stature, 
from a regiment of common soldiers, yet the 
leader of the Black Rangers, who rode at their 
head, was, to all appearance, as much superior 
in all these, as well as many other qualities to 
his own gallant band, as they were superior 
to the promiscuous gatherings of an army. 

Tall in stature, with a form moulded with 
the outline of physical power, softened by the 
gentler proportions of manly grace, with a 
manner that marked him out from the mass of 
common men, a face warmed with the glow 
of youth, yet impressed with the indelible 
lines of thought, Herbert Arnheim Tracy was 
in every point of view worthy of his reputation 
(won in the short compass of a year) of being 
one of the bravest among the brave, the first 
in the storm, the foremost in the charge, the 
most tireless in the pursuit — as obnoxious to 
the enemy in the retreat as in the chase. 

His face impressed the observer with a high 
idea of the intellect expressed in each linea- 
ment. His forehead, high and pale, and 
bearing the wrinkles of thought, was relieved 
by his raven black hair, which fell in luxuriant 
locks almost to his shoulders. His eyes, of 
that deep and thoughtful blackness which is 
ever accompanied by strong mental powers, 
shone like flame-coals from under his strongly 
marked and arching eyebrows, with a clear, 
steady glance, that told of old memories 
stirring up within him, and prospects of the 
dim future agitating the abysses of his soul. 
His nose was small and Grecian, his mouth 
a thought too wide, with thin, expressive lips; 
his chin was small, prominent, square, and 



decided in its outline, while the general contour 
of his face was in harmony with the regular 
lines of manly beauty. 

As to his dress, he wore the uniform of his 
band, the black frock coat, edged with fur ; 
boots of the same hue ; a small sword was sus- 
pended from his left side ; a hunting knife was 
inserted in bis belt, and a small chain of 
burnished steel passed over his left shoulder, 
supported a light hunting horn of silver, 
rimmed with gold, which ever hung ready for 
immediate use under his right arm. In place 
of the feather of the night-hawk worn by his 
men, his cap wore in front a long drooping 
plume of eagles' feathers, which fell to one 
side, and mingled with the luxuriant locks of 
his raven hair. 

Could you have looked into Herbert 
Tracy's mind as he then rode along the 
sequestered lane, at the head of his gallant 
band, you would have discovered many a 
bitter thought sweeping athwart the surface 
of his soul, mingling with many a memory of 
the olden time, many a dreary imagining of 
future doom, and many a thought of those he 
loved, who loved him not, and many a musing 
of one who returned his affection with a deep 
and burning passion. 

A dream — a bright reverie — of his early 
days was now present with his fancy, and the 
sunny glades and the shady recesses of the 
Wissahikon were again around him, and again 
he wandered through the forests that over- 
looked the world-hidden stream, arm in arm 
with that father, from whose heart and home 
he was now a stranger and an outcast. 

And then came the memory of the bitter 
day, when that father's curse rang in his ears. 

There was the small library-room in which 
the dreamings of his boyhood had been fed 
with additional fancies from the perusal of the 
volumes of history and of romance. The dull 
light of a November day came through the 
solitary window of the apartment, and again, 
with words of eloquent persuasion, his father, 
foy birth an Englishman, and a Loyalist from 
principle, endeavored to convince his son 
of the truth of the cause of Royalty, and ol 
its intimate connection with his future pursuits 
and expectations. 

For, after a life of voluntary exile from his 
native land — after burying his mind and talents 



140 



HERBERT TRACY, 



for years amid the shades of the Wissahikon, 
while his heart was eating itself away with 
deep broodings of one of the last descendants 
of an honored line, condemned to comparative 
penury, Major Herbert Wallingford Tracy 
found himself suddenly placed by the death 
of various intermediate heirs, but one remove 
from the Earldom of Wallingford, whose 
domains were located in one of the fairest 
counties of England, where his ancestors had 
lived and flourished since the Conquest. On 
the death of the present aged and childless 
Earl, Major Tracy would become Earl of 
Wallingford, and his son, whose strong, innate 
powers, he had often noted with all a parent's 
love, would, after his decease, succeed to the 
title and estates of the ancient house, to add, 
as the father hoped, renewed glory and 
increased honor to the records of the venerable 
line. 

But all his hopes, the hopes of a bold, a 
strong-minded, and worldly ambitious man, 
soured by the disappointments of youth into a 
misanthrope, were met at the very outset, by 
the candid and fearless declaration of his son, 
that he could not draw his sword against the 
land that gave him birth. 

And then, wound up to the pitch of 
madness, by this utter prostration of all his 
ambitious dreams — for Major Tracy had 
thought to win royal favor for his son, by the 
devotion of his influence to the cause of roy- 
alty — the father raised his hand to heaven, 
and, with unquivering lip and steady eye, 
cursed that son of all his hopes, and then 
thrust him, like an unclean thing, from the 
home of his infancy and the side of his 
betrothed. Her father, Mr. Waltham, had 
refused to consummate the marriage of his 
daugnter with an outcast, and pour his well 
filled coffers at the feet of one, who was a 
rebel in his opinion — not to his majesty 
George the Third — but, what was a matter 
of much greater importance, "to the rich 
Squire of Waltham" — a rebel to all that was 
high and holy in religion or nature — a rebel 
to Loyalty, Respectability, and Wealth. In 
other words, in his eyes Herbert Arnheim 
Tracy was a poor man. 

When Herbert departed from the mansion 
of his infancy, it was with the determination 



to join the banner of Washington. A small 
fortune bequeathed to him by a distant relative 
in Philadelphia, which he was now enabled 
to claim, having just attained his majority, 
afforded him the means of fitting out a band 
of brave farmers 1 sons, who had known him 
from his infancy, and other gallant spirits, and 
embodying them in a band which soon became 
widely known as Captain Tracy's Mounted 
Rifles, the Night Hawks or the Blnck Rangers. 

In less than a year he had gained honor 
and renown, and now, after an absence from 
the home of his childhood of that duration, he 
found himself returning toward the wilds of 
the Wissahikon, with the thought of his father's 
curse hanging heavy over his soul, and dismal 
forebodings of the future fate of his betrothed, 
giving a melancholy tinge to all his feelings 
and fancies. 

His meditations were interrupted by the 
voice of a war worn veteran at his side. He 
was a soldier of a quarter of a century*!? 
growth, and had served under Braddock in the 
old French war. 

" We shall have warm work of it to-morrow, 
C apt' in." 

" Aye, Sergeant, we shall have warm work, 
most certainly." 

" Trust our band will remember our trum- 
peter boy, Capt'in." 

" He who was murdered some months since 
you mean ! Our band of gallant fellows will 
never forget the massacre of the young trum- 
peter, Sergeant Brown. How far do you think 
we are from the British Camp, Sergeant ?" 

" 'Bout five miles, Capt'n ; three miles to 
Chestnut Hill, and two from thence to Chew's 
House, which I larn is the location of the 
Britishers 'campment." 

" It must be about five miles, then, to the 
Paper Mill Run on the Wissahikon?" 

" Jist the same, Capt'in." 

" Do you think it will be possible, Sergeant, 
to pass the British lines and reach the Run 
within an hour's time ?" 

"Possible and impossible, Capt'in, jist as 
you take it. If you take the bed of the Wis- 
sahikon, and pass the Britishers under cover 
of the brushwood, 'long side of it — that's what 
I call possible, and you'll succeed. If you 
try any other way — that's what I call impos- 



(HI) 



OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS 



143 



tsirle, and you'll not succeed, but you'll get 
ei:ot. But what is that thing bowin' and 
.crapin' yonder ?" 

Herbert looked in the direction pointed out 
by the Sergeant, and discovered a singular 
figure, bowing and posturing after a most 
curious fashion, at the distance of some twenty 
paces, directly in the centre of the lane, in 
front of the Rangers' path. On approaching 
nearer to this singular figure, it resolved itself 
into a short broad-shouldered negro, with an 
exceedingly large black face, flat nose, thick 
lips and prominent chin, large eyes with very 
small pupils, and very large " whites;" hips 
and shin-bones of tremendous prominence, 
feet of colossal size, and general figure as I 
grotesque in outline, and as ludicrous in pro- 
portion, as though Nature herself had turned 
caricaturist, and manufactured a walking libel 
upon the whole monkey tribe. 

" Massa Herhet, Massa Ilerbet " — ex- 
claimed the negro, making a profound bow as 
the Rangers approached — * If dat ar b« you 1 
jest say so, for gorra-inighiy, Lord bless us,' 
dis nigger am tired — dat am a fac. I'b been 
hunting you, eber since yesterday mornin,' way 
up to de Skippack creek, sixteen miles from 
here, as true as my name am Charles de Fust, I 
and I hab'ent found you till dis berry instant. I 
De berry debbil's to pay at home y and no 
pitch hot " 

" Why, Charley ! is that you S" cried Cap- 1 
tain Tracy, as he recognized one of his father's 
domestics in the negro, " what message have 
you for me ? Who sent you ?" 

4i Dar's de message 1 ha!) for you, and Miss 
Marian Waltham sent me. True as mv name's 
Charles de Fust." 

Herbert took the carefully folded note from 
the hands of the negro, and, with a quickening 
pulse recognized the handwriting of his be- 
trothed in the simple direction — " To Captain 
Herbert Arnheim Tracy." With a nervous 
hand he broke open the seal, and read — 

October 2, 1777. 

Dearest Herbert — T am in great distress, 
and hemmed in by the most, fearful dangers. 
If you have any regard for our mutual love, 
our mutual fate, come to me ; come to me as 
soon as you have read these lines. Nothing 
but your presence can avert the fate of — 

Your betrothed, Mahian. 



44 God of Heaven !" exclaimed Tracy, as 
his cheek grew for a moment lividly pale — 
4i the letter is dated yesterday, and yet, Charles 
you have failed to deliver it until this moment. 
Tell me, sirrah," he continued, raising himself 
in his stirrups, as his eye flashed with anger 
— " Wherefore this neglect ? Answer me 
truly, or by the next tree and a strong cord 
shall be yours !" 

" Gorra-mighty, Loru bless, sure as my 
name's Charles de Fast," stammered the 
negro, half frightened out of his wits as he 
stood bowing in front of Herbert's horse. 
" Massa Herbert, what's de use ob workin' 
yusef in a passhun ? Dese am de facts ob de 
ease. Two days ago, Massa Waltham, who 
libs on de Ridge Road, come ober to Major 
Tracy's on a visit. Brought Miss Marian wid 
him — and de old fellow was seized by paraly- 
tic stroke while at the Major's — t'ought he 
was going to die — den him and your fader 
make up match between his darter and dat red 
coat sr-imo, L^ftenant Well wood Tracy. Un- 
der dem circumstances Miss Marian dispatch 
me off wid dis note for you. Went up to de 
Skippack — couldn't find you dar. De sed 
you was gone out a scouting. Been a foller- 
ing you up eber since — and here I be, and 
dere you are, and Miss Marian's goin' to be 
married to dat renegate dis ebenin'. So if you 
Sfwain to do anything - , you better do it mighty 
dam quick. Sure's my name's Charles de 
Fust." 

"Sergeant," cried Herbert, turning hur- 
riedly to the veteran Brown, who rode at his el- 
Low. " You know the place of rendezvous ? 
The deserted mansion among the copse of 
horse chestnut trees, about a quarter of a mile 
hence ?" 

" The place is called the Haunted House ?" 

** The same. Let the Rangers disperse in 
every direction in search of intelligence as re- 
gards the force, numbers, and position of the 
enemy. We meet again at twelve to-nighl at 
the Haunted House. It is now dark — dis- 
perse the Rangers, Sergeant !" 

The Sergeant touched his hat, and presently 
the Rangers were seen dispersing in various di- 
rections. " Charles de Fust" was left standing 
alone with the Captain. 

" They have a desperate game to play." 
Herbert muttered in a whisper, that came 



144 



HERBERT TRACY, 



through his clenched teeth. "She is mine — 
mine by all that is sacred. Wo be to him who 
shall say me nay ! — By the God that lives — " 

The oath was scattered to the air, and the 
astonished negro beheld Herber-t plunging the 
spurs into the sides of his ebon steed, who 
swept through field and meadow with the speed 
of wind, and in an instant was lost in the 
shades of a neighboring forest. 

" Dat am berry perlite! Berry ! Tc leave 
me all alone here in de middle ob de road. 
Berry perlite; — Gorra-mighty, Lord bless 
us — sure's my name's Charles de Fust. " 

CHAPT R FOURTH 

THE BETROTHED. 

She gazed upon that gorgeous sunset, the 
beautiful girl ! She gazed from the arching 
window of her chamber, at the setting sun, 
with her beaming face flushed into brighter ra- 
diance by the last glimpse of daylight — her 
blue eyes dimmed with tears — her warm 
lips, parted by the rising sigh — and her gol- 
den hued hair, floating in glossy richness down 
each cheek, and along her neck, and finally 
resting in beautiful disorder upon that virgin 
bosom with its veins of azure and its outline 
of youth and bloom 

The beauty of Marian Waltham was of that 
fascinating character which so finely and deli- 
cately blends the spiritual with the material, 
and charms the beholder with a glance, a look, 
or a tone; which enchains the fancy with 
every motion and attracts the imagination in 
every attitude, throwing the golden light of ro- 
mance around the fair form — giving a brighter 
glance to the eye, a lovelier hue to the velvet 
cheek, and a winning sweetness to the tone, 
which seems to convey every idea of the hid- 
den soul that words of human speech may fail 
to utter. 

Lovely as Marian was at all times, she cer- 
tainly never seemed more beautiful than on 
this eventful evening, when gazing at the last 
beams of sunset, from the window of her spa- 
cious chamber, situated in the western winjjof 
M-jor Tracy's mansion, among the heights of 
the Wissahikon. 

Her face, raised gently upward, received on 
each glowing cheek, the soft flush of sunset ; 
her eyes, large blue and lustrous, half closed 



in dreaming thought, were glittering through 
their tears ; her mouth, with its small lips cur- 
ving with a fascinating fulness, was slightly 
opened with the listlessness of reverie, around 
her Grecian head, along each blooming cheek, 
and over her neck and shoulders, streamed 
the luxuriant locks of her hair, whose bright 
and silky gold, glistening in the sunbeams, 
completed the fascination that hovered round 
her beauty like a veil of light. 

Her bust was ample, well proportioned, and 
swelling in its outline, yet delicately formed 
and full of virgin beauty ; her waist small and 
tapering, yet without any appearance of unna- 
tural confinement or artificial restraint; while 
from her waist downward the proportions of 
her figure fell in a voluptuous sweep, which 
gave indefinable fascination to every motion of 
those small and softly chiselled feet, whose 
fairy tracery of form peeped from beneath the 
snow-white folds of the bridal robe. 

And those arms, full, fair, and rounded with 
the floating line of grace, bared from the 
shoulder with their beauty gleaming through 
the bewitching sleeves of air-like lace, and the 
delicate hands with miniature fingers half 
clasped in front supporting the golden bracelet, 
which the maiden was about to entwine around 
that wrist which needed no such garish orna- 
ment ; all these charms — the face, the float- 
ing hair, the half thoughtful, half dreaming at- 
titude, the air of winning innocence, the in- 
nocence that implies ignorance of the world's 
customs which encircled the maiden's features, 
— all combined, made her seem to the fasci- 
nated eye, pure as she was, a being to be loved 
with all the depth of the passion that springs 
from a high intellect. 

Marian turned from the bright sunset and 
g;azed around her chamber. Ever since the 
intimate friendship of Major Tracy and Squire 
Waltham had given rise to frequent visits to the 
mansion of the former, this chamber had been 
set apart for Marian and furnished to her taste. 
The furniture was attractive without being 
gorgeous. The chamber looked precisely the 
same as on the day when the fair Marian first 
retired within its precincts to muse on the gal- 
lant youth, who had saved her life, endangered 
by a frightened horse, which rushed with her- 
self and father over a precipice, and plunged 
them in the waters of the Wissahikon. She 



THE BETROTHED. 



145 



even now imagined the noble form of Her- 
bert, confronting the maddened horse, and 
when his efforts to stay the speed of the ani- 
mal were in vain, again the picture was 
colored by her fancy, how gallantly he sprang 
into the depths of the rivulet and drew her 
fainting form and that of her dying father to the 
shore. All this, and the subsequent scenes, 
the confession of his love, her acknowledge- 
ment of a mutual passion, and the betrothal — 
arose to her vivid fancy, and the maiden 
dashed her father's marriage present, the 
gaudy bracelet, to the floor, and covering her 
face with her hands, she sought relief from the 
pressure of thought in a flood of tears. 

Her attention was attracted by the sound of 
a footstep, and a low voice whispered her 
name. 

She looked up and beheld her father. His 
frame was thin and attenuated with disease, 
his shoulders bent forward with premature old 
age ; slight masses of grey hair, falling from 
under his invalid's cap, strayed along each sun- 
ken cheek, affording a fearful relief to the pale 
hue of that face, with the features, distorted by 
pain, the eye glassy, the lip shrunken, and 
the brow contracted. 

" Daughter, you are in tears," said Mr. 
Waltham, laying a thin and withered hand 
upon Marian's shoulder. " What mustbe, must. 
I have planned this marriage, Marian, with an 
eye single to thy happiness — " he paused, for 
a violent fit of coughing choked his utterance. 

" When I am no more, Marian, you will 
need a protector. Lieutenant Well wood 
Tracy—" 

Marian turned her head away, and concealed 
her face in her hands, at the name. 

" Nay, Marian, wherefore start you thus ? 
Is not the Lieutenant nobly born, and gallantly 
bred ! Has he not wealth ; is not his name en- 
rolled among the honored and respected of the 
world ?" 

"Father! My troth is plighted to another!" 
exclaimed Marian in that decided voice which 
betokens the firmness of despair — " My troth 
is plighted to another." 

" An outcast and a beggar !" exclaimed a 
strange voice, and the tall form of Major Tracy 
stood between the father and daughter — "An 
outcast and a beggar !" he continued, as a smile 



of mingled contempt and scorn curved his lips. 
" Your troth is pledged to another forsooth ? 
Why, Marian, I had thought better of you 
than this ? What! would you stoop to marry 
an outcast from his home, a rebel to his 
king, a man who has drawn his sword in 
Treason and by the unsheathing of that sword, 
blasphemed his God ? Would you marry a 
beggar, fair maiden ?" 

As he said this Major Tracy's brow became 
contracted with a dark frown, and then his lip 
trembled with an expression of contempt. His 
appearance was full of majesty, with his tail 
form and erect bearing ; and his high pallid 
brow, seared by the wrinkles of worldly care 
and ambitious thought, was shown in bold re- 
lief, as the last glow of sunset fell on its bold 
outline, with the dark hair, sprinkled with the 
frost of age, thrown back in careless disorder. 

But the fair maiden quailed not before his 
glance. Stung by his taunts into a reply, she 
raised her form to its full stature, and with her 
blue eye, flashing with a steady unvarying 
glance, and with her fair arm outstretched, she 
exclaimed in a quiet tone — 

" Can a father speak thus of his son ?" she 
exclaimed, " can a father so far forget all feel- 
ings of natural affection, as to curse, with 
bitter words and sneering manner, the child, 
whom he is bound, by every law of God and 
man, to love and protect ? Not thus does a 
maiden speak of her betrothed husband I No ! 
Though Herbert were a beggar, clad in rags 
and banned by the unjust opinion of the world, 
though he labored under the bitterest curse that 
ever rose to the lips of an unjust, a passionate 
parent, still would I wed him, banned and 
cursed, though he were, aye, cheerfully and 
joyfully would I wed him, and as Truth lives 
in heaven, I will wed none — " 

" Hold, Marian, hold, for my sake !" shrieked 
her father, raising his attenuated hands, with a 
voice that seemed prophetic ot his anticipated 
home — the grave — "Marian, pause for your 
father's sake !" 

The words died on the maiden's lip, the 
flush of momentary excitement passed from 
her beaming features, her eye lost its flashing 
glance, her form its erect stature, her arm fell 
listlessly by her side, and Marian forgot the 
vow of eternal constancy to her lover, when 



146 



HERBERT TRACY, 



she beheid, standing before her, the weak and 
attenuated form of her father, trembling on the 
verge of the grave, with his eyes, dimmed by 
disease, warmed into the momentary glance 
that appealed with such silent eloquence to the 
holiest feelings of a dauo-hter's heart. 

She sank weeping at his feet, and clasped 
his withered hands, as she wept. 

" You will consent, my daughter ?" he 
whispered, " You will gratify your poor, fond 
father." 

Marian murmured a few broken words and 
Major Tracy stood regarding the father and 
daughter with a glance of mocking triumph as 
he muttered. " Now this brave son of mine 
shall know the man he has defied ! Well- 
wood shall have the bride and the lands, 
and when the rebel has met his deserts, Well- 
wood succeeds to the Earldom ! Miss Walt- 
ham," he continued aloud, " I had well nigh 
forgot the object of my errand hither. Lieuten- 
ant Well wood Tracy has just arrived, and with 
as little delay as may be, after the fatigue of 
travel, will hasten to pay his respects to his 
fair bride !" 

CHAPTER FIF TH. 

THE BRIDEGROOM. 

A stately array of silver candelabra, placed 
on the mantel, and containing tall formal wax 
candles, threw a glaring light around the anti- 
quated parlor, with its massive mirrors, its 
Turkish carpeting, its wainscoted walls, adorned 
with paintings, its old fashioned sofa, and high 
backed mahogany chairs. 

A young man of some twenty-three years, 
attired in the uniform of an officer in the 
Britisli dragoons, lay extended on the sofa in 
an attitude of the most elegant disorder. His 
legs enveloped in Hessian boots, shining with 
spurs and spattered with mud, carelessly crossed, 
his head with its powdered locks resting j 
upon one arm, with his face to the ce'ling, he 
seemed intently engaged in examining the 
merits of his chapeau, with its mass of feathers, 
which his other hand held poised directly over 
his face. He was not an unhandsome man, 
but there was an air of effeminacy about his 
small, delicate features, and the jaunty air of 
every position assumed by his slender and 
well-proportioned figure, that gave you an idea 



you stood in the presence of the fashionable 
fop, the man of the world of idlers, the 
"dawdler" at ladies' elbows, the talker of 
small sayings, the coiner of compliments, and 
smatterer of little pieces of all kinds of know- 
ledge, which combined together form what the 
mass call a gentleman, always provided the 
combination of so many rare qualities is well 
dressed. 

And Wellwood Tracy was no dull fellow 
either. A few summers at Oxford had given 
him some idea of the existence of Greek and 
Latin, and he was sufficiently acquainted with 
them to know that these words meant lan- 
guages, not celebrated philosophers. A winter 
in London, passed amid the excitement of balls, 
routes, soirees, and the thousand other as- 
semblages of the gay world, had given him 
some idea of life, and instilled into his mind 
that fashionable code of morals, which places 
the winning of a game at cards, and the de- 
struction of a woman's virtue, on a scale of 
perfect equality in the list of innocent pleasures 
and venial sins with all these acquirements, 
and a genteel way of saying large oaths and 
dainty imprecations, Lieutenant Wellwood 
Tracy was voted by the world in general, and 
his messmates in particular, to be a deuced 
clever fellow, a finished gentleman, in every 
way worthy of succeeding to the Earldom of 
Wallingford, in case the intermediate heirs 
should happen to vacate this scene of trial and 
care. 

The Lieutenant had just counted each 
feather in his chapeau for the twelfth time, 
when the door opened, and a servant informed 
him that his chamber was ready for his use, 
where he might remove from his person the 
dust, disorder and dishabille of travel. 

" Now for my bridal robes," lisped the gal- 
lant dragoon, as he tumbled from the sofa into 
an erect position. " I wonder where that 
j cursed valet of mine is staying all the time? 
What detains the village priest ? Well — well 
[looking at his watch] it's near the hour, and 
I've just time to dress. A fellow can be mar- 
ried but once — it's best to submit with a good 
grace, so here goes for ihe mysteiies ot the Un- 
let — and then she's handsome and rich, and I 
may one day be Earl of Wallingford !" 

Disappointment is the great misery of life — 
success the great blessing. Which of the two 



OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 



147 



shall be the lot of the gallant Lieutenant 
Well wood Tracy of His Majesty's dragoons ? 



CHAPTER SIXTH. 

THE VALLEY OF THE WISSAHIKON. 

When Harry Heft left the farm-house of 
the Quaker, in obedience to the invisible sig- 
nal, the new moon, with its delicate cres- 
cent of silver, poised in the clear azure of the 
western horizon, was shedding around over 
the woods and stream of the Wissahikon, a 
shower of softened light, which danced on the 
prominent points of the foliage, sparkled along 
the rivulet, and waved in threads of radiance 
through the open glades and shadowed recesses 
of the forest. 

Having passed through the small garden, in 
front of the farm-house, the young soldier 
brushed aside the grass of the meadow, heavy 
with dew, and pursued his way toward the 
Wissahikon, which murmured through the 
stillness, its thousand tiny ripples, brightening 
in the kiss of the moonbeams. 

"Well, may I die the death of a spy" — ex- 
claimed Harry as he reached the banks of the 
stream, and gazed around — " May I die the 
death of a riglar built renegate, if this aint 
purty. I never did see my native stream look 
so nice afore — and now that I think of it, I'd 
like to visit my old folks ; but I haint got time. 
I must get that purty gal out of the clutches o' 
* them Britishers at Major Tracy's, and then I 
kin sit down and play if I like, but not afore. 
But where in the name of the Continental Con- 
gress is that feller Dennis ? Dennis O'Dou- 
gherty, McDennott, McDonough, McDaniel, 
Mac- " 

" Mac Divil !" answered a voice from a 
clump of elder bushes, within arm's-reach of 
Heft. " And is it callin' a man, dacent and 
civil, out o' his name, at this solemn hour of 
the - night, ye are, ye spalppayn ? Is thisyer 
pe'liteness, Harry Heft" — continued the voice, 
as the bushes rustled, and a small round face, 
with a very small, and very bright pair of 
grey eyes, long upper lip and short nose, 
emerged from the foliage. 44 Is this yer pe'lite- 
ness I say ? I'm ashamed of ye, Harry Heft." 

The face gradually rose from among the 
bushes, and presently a tall, stout figure, cladin 
the unifo.m of the Black Rangers, leaped out 



on the turf, and in an instant was at the side of 
Harry Heft." 

"I'm ashamed of ye, Harry Heft" — said the 
Irishman, with a grave look, and with a merry 
sparkle in his eye. " By the ghost of Fin-ma- 
coul, of St. Patrick, St. Pater, and a half dozen 
more of the rispictable old jintlemen, who 
raised petaties in ould Erin afore the curse of 
Cromwell and King George was put upon her 
sod, I'm ashamed of ye, Harry — there now 
ye pesky critter," he continued, for long resi- 
dence among the people of the northern Prov- 
inces had spiced the brogue of Dennis McDer- 
mott, with, a little dash of the Yankee dialect. 
" There now ye pesky critter, are ye satisfied V 

Harry burst into a peal of laughter, and ex- 
claimed between tthe bursts of merriment — 

" Look here, Irish, somebody must a-been 
drying your primin' before a hickory fire — 
you go off at such very short notice. W T hy 
you explode at about the eighth fraction of half- 
cock. Why, Irish, you're gitting quite ani- 
mated — if you'd only rake a'ter me some- 
thing might be made out of you. You are a 
reg'lar old boy !" 

" Jest call me by me christen name, Dennis, 
will ye 1 Or pr'aps ye'd like yer picter 
spilt?" 

" No, thank'ee not jist now," replied Harry, 
catching the quiet twinkle of the warm-hearted 
Irishman's eye. "But come along, Dennis. 
Let's ford the creek and pass on; we've got 
about a mile to go, nnd the sooner we're movin' 
the better." 

The Rangers waded the stream, which was 
not more than breast high, at this point, and 
taking a beaten track on the western side, pro- 
ceeded southward at a rapid pace for about five 
minutes. After walking under the shade of 
the wood, the path emerged into an open field, 
covered with blackberry bushes, brambles, and 
wild 'vines, trailing along the ground, with 
heaps of newly cut timber, scattered over the 
surface of the uncultivated earth. The field 
was passed and the Rangers arrived a* a spot, 
of singular beauty. 

The Wissahikon entered a deep ravine or 
glen — if either of these names are appro- 
priate — where the banks arose bv an ascent 
in some places gradual, in other points abrupt, 
into high and massive hills, clothed from the 
sparkle of the ripple, to the deep blu.; of the 



148 



HERBERT TRACT, 



sky, with most luxuriant trees, with foliage 
faintly dyed by autumn, of every gradation of 
fantastic outline of form, every variety of light 
and shade. Here swelling into pyramids of 
leaves, silvered by the moonbeams ; there 
sloping away into shady nooks ; at one point 
sweeping down to one brooklet by a gentle 
descent of chestnut trees, in all the towering 
height of a century's growth, succeeded by 
tender saplings, whose leaves were interwoven 
with those of many a green shrab and verdant 
bush growing by the water side, and dashing 
their verdure in the waves of the deep, clear, 
mirror-like flood ; at another point, circling 
around some perpendicular mass of rock, 
whose clefts were green with many a wild 
vine, the foliage sank gradually from the sky 
to the stream, with a leaf here and there touched 
by the moonlight, while all the rest was indis- 
tinct and dark. 

The stream, winding through the glen, wilh 
its deep waters of glassy clearness, reflected 
the ascending steps on* either side, and the 
small space of the clear blue sky, which these 
heights viewed from the vale below, permitted 
to be seen, with so faithful an outline, and such 
a delicate mass of hues and tints, lights and 
shades, that it seemed as though the landscape 
beneath the waters was an ideal and spiritual 
copy of the real and living landscape above. 

The path which our Rangers pursued, led 
along the water's edge, and wound among the 
colossal trunks of wide-branching oaks, whose 
roots had been striking deep, and whose limbs 
had been growing stronger for hundreds of years. 
As they wended along with the silver murmur of 
the stream filling the air, and the soft moonlight 
floating amid the waving foliage, the Rangers for 
a time, under the influence of the holy silence of 
the hour, ceased all conversation. With their 
footfalls echoing along the wood, and the occa- 
sional rustling of leaves as they brushed through 
a mass of shrubbery opposing their path, they 
pursued their way, until the murmuring of a 
waterfall told them of their vicinity to Ritten- 
house's mill — -a massive stone building, which 
rose in strong relief, its grey walls standing 
boldly out against the background verdure, 
while a number of cottages, barns, and out- 
houses, were scattered around it on the eastern 
side of the artificial cascade. 

The Rangers paused for a moment upon a 



shelving rock, and looked back into the lovely 
glen, which they were about to leave. 

"Och, comrid, Harry Heft," said the Irish- 
man, breaking the silence which had lasted for 
a quarter of an hour. " Sure this beautiful 
spot, with its feathery trees, and soft 
moonlight, and its quietness and solemnity, 
brings to mind the place ov me birth, wid the 
little hut, and its green turf on the bank of the 
Lake Killarney ! The curse o' God be on 
the tyrant who driv me frum me home ! Is it 
blubberin' ye are, Harry Heft?" 

The young American Ranger certainly 
showed no signs of weeping, but Dennis 
merely meant the insinuation as an excuse for 
the tear which stole from his own eyelid, and 
washed his scarred and sunburnt cheek. 

" What did the British drive you from your 
home for?" exclaimed Harry, participating in 
the Irishman's outburst of long-hidden sympa- 
thies. 

" Ye've seen a tear in my eye, Harry Heft, 
and you may as well make a note ov it ; for 
none '11 you iver see there agin. The why 
and wherefore 1 left me native country is a 
long story, Harry Heft ; but ye must know, 
Harry, that meself and me mother, and the 
wife and the childer, (not forgetting the pig, 
be jabers,) lived in the nate little shealing on 
the banks of the Killarney, and not a care did 
we know, mair be token we had plenty o' 
petaties, until the red-coated Britishers came 
and meddled wid a little still ov me own — " 

"Still? Whiskey still ?" inquired Henry. 

" The same. A little bit ov a hand machine 
to manvfactur' the poteen, ye know. The 
sodjers came, and we had a taste ov a ruction, 
andlgiv one of the rascals the 'unlucky blow,' 
not maneing it at all, at all ; but flattened out 
he was, and it was I that did it." 

" You sarved him right ! Confound the 
Britishers, I say !" 

"Amen to that. And then they giv me the 
choice ov the gallows or the dragoon's saddle, 
for they saw 1 was a stout, tall felley (fellow) 
ov me inches, and I chosed the gallows. But 
the wife clung to me bosom, and the childer 
clung to me knees, and pursuaded wid their 
tears, that sed so much more than words, to 
'list, sooner than be hanged, and 'list I did, 
sorrow to me soul! And I've never seen 
wife or childer since." 




10 



(U9) 



OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 



151 



The Irishman brushed a tear from his eye, 
and Harry was seized with a sudden fit of 
whistling. 

"Aye! Whistle, Harry, whistle! It's 
better to whistle nor to weep, and if 1 did'nt 
laugh sometimes my heart 'ud break for the 
grief that's tugging at it. Ochone, Erin 
Mavourneen — I'm making a judy ov meself." 

" How long is it since ye listed, Dennis !" 

" Ten years or thereabouts. We came to 
Montreal, and seen some service among the 
French and Injins, and on one occashun, a 
party of us dragoons were dispatched all the 
way to Detroit, and the whole kit ov us, barrin' 
two others besides meself, were riddled by the 
red skinned Injins. We three survivors picked 
up our bones and walked off about our business, 
each on his own petikeler way, for we didn't 
see any necessity of our returning to Montreal 
and the barracks, or pushing on to Detroit with 
its wild cats and Injins." 

" And then you pushed eastward and settled 
down about Germantown here ?" 

" And here I've lived and wrought for near 
five years, until Captain Tracy, and a likely 
boy he is too, tipped me the wink, and then I 
followed him to the wars, and maybe I haven't 
been a bad thorn in the side of the B/itishers ?" 

" A regular splinter in their sore-foot, as one 
might say. But should any of your former 
comrades see you again, think they'd know 
you ? 

"It's difficult for meself to tell. But, 
'sposin' they did see me and knew me, and 
had me in their clutches at the same identical 
time ; it's my candid opinion they'd give me a 
pine coffin, and a dozen bullets. The more 
shame to 'em and their king, and the whole 
posse of 'em, by the blessed St. Pathrick." 

" Well, now look here 'Irish ' — I call you 
that cause it sounds more sociable than Den- 
nis — I owe you a life for a savin' mine at the 
rumpus of Brandy wine. And now by the 
Lord above us, if the Britishers ever catch 
hold of you, and I don't rescue you, or if they 
harm you, and I don't avenge you, then may 
I never know what it is to die a soldier's death, 
but die the pitiful death of a spy ! That's 
swor' to, Irish — " continued the good-hearted 
soldier as he grasped the Irishman's hand 
and gave it a hearty shake. " And now let's 
be off; you know our Captain told us to pay 



a visit to his father's house, and recon'itre, and 
then bring him word, but I've a notion of 
puttin' an end to this marriage somehow or 
other, and to bringin' him word of that too, 
before he hears it is in progress." 

" Sure, Harry Heft, ye didn't tell me of 
any marriage. Be jabers I'm all in the 
dark — " 

" But come along. Let's ford the creek at 
the falls, here, and travel down toward the 
Paper Mill, and I'll tell you on the way !" 

Fording the stream, they passed along the 
road on the eastern side of the Wissahikon 
for about a quarter of a mile, until the waters 
of the Paper Mill Run came plunging into its 
bosom, from a height covered with the build- 
ings and out-houses surrounding a massive 
mill. Pursuing the course of the rivulet — 
which at this point takes a sudden bend to the 
west on its way to the Schuylkill — after 
fifteen minutes had elapsed, they arrived at a 
spot, where a perpendicular wall of rocks 
arises from the opposite and northern shore of 
the stream, clothed in every cleft and crevice 
with giant pines, some growing out from the 
rock in a horizontal direction, others slanting 
upward, others bending crosswise, and with 
every giant pine, however fantastical in form, 
flinging its branches out into the moonlight- 
from the straight and steep ascent of the cliff. 

44 Do you see that barricade of rocks, Irish ?" 

44 Be jabers, a nateral fortriss !" 

" Upon the top of that mass of rocks, is con 
cealed as pretty a mansion as ever your eye 
rested upon. That's Major Tracy's house, 
and we ascend to it by a winding road. We 
cross over the stream on these steppin' stones. 
The entrance to this road is concealed among 
the bushes yonder. It begins somewhere be- 
low this tremendous wall. I have it." 

They entered the bushes, and presently 
were journeying along a road, worn by horses' 
feet, which wound round the precipice, af- 
fording an easy, though somewhat sudden as- 
cent to the platform of earth at the summit. 
Presently they emerged from the shade of the 
pine trees, and stood upon the turf of a green 
lawn, fenced round the edge of the precipice 
with the interlacing trunks of the pines, forming 
a natural protection, against the dangers of the 
steep, with their branches entwined through 
each other, crossed and re-crossud, and woven 



152 



HERBERT TRACY, 



together, so thickly and densely, as to give an 
observer an idea, that what he beheld was the 
work of man's art, rather than a feat of nature. 

CHAPTER SEVENTH. 

THE BRIDAL PARTY. 

In the centre of the lawn arose the substan- 
tial stone mansion of Major Tracy. It was a 
building - of some magnitude, overshadowed by 
a towering - sycamore which rising in all the 
strength and grandeur of ages, threw its leaning 
trunk over the gabled roof, while its far 
reaching branches, bursting 1 out on every side, 
clad with a thick and luxuriant foliage, afforded 
a pleasant and agreeable defence from the 
rigor 6f the sun in the heat of summer, and 
now, as the moon sank below the horizon, en- 
veloped the edifice and the lawn in its vicinity 
in deepest shadows. The darkness was bro- 
ken by long lines of light streaming from the 
half-closed shutters of the chamber looking out, 
upon the portico which fronted the verdant 
grass, and extended along the entire front of 
the mansion. 

" Now keep your eyes about you, Irish," 
exclaimed Harry, as he glanced hurriedly 
round at the spacious mansion and the range 
of out-buildings. " By the Continental Con- 
g-ess, if I aint very much mistaken, them lights, 
Hashing from the windows, out upon the 
porch, have a tale of their own to tell. Let's 
recon'itre, Irish." 

"lie St. Pathrick ! what's that?" muttered 
Dennis in a tone of suppressed wonder, as they 
approached the porch. " Do you see any 
thing there, my darlint crittur ?" 

Harry ! I oft followed the linger of the Irish- 
man with his eye, and discovered, fastened by 
their bridle reins to a pillar of the portico, two 
gallant steeds, whose trappings, the ornamented 
saddle cloth and the holsters, all showed that 
their riders were at least military men, if not 
officers of rank and authority. 

With hushed breath and cautious step, 
Harry Heft stole along the floor toward the 
window shutters from whence emerged the 
light, and which reached from the roof of the 
portico to the floor. Each window served the 
purpose of a door, as weli as a medium for the 
admittance of daylight. Gazing through the 
irevice of the shutters — the sashes opened 



after the fashion of folding doors, being thrown 
back — Harry Heft beheld a scene whJch he 
regarded with evident wonder and astonish- 
ment, although he had anticipated something 
of the kind. 

The apartment within was spacious, large, 
and furnished after the fashion of some sixty 
years since. It Was lighted by a chandelier, 
filled with stately candles of wax, and sus- 
pended from the stuccoed ceiling. In the cen- 
tre of the apartment with his back turned to the 
window, stood a portly man, with a very red, 
round face, a very brilliant nose, and a very 
small mouth, and his ample figure arrayed in 
the gown and surplice of a clergyman, while 
his little fat hands, with short gouty fingers, 
grasped a gilt edged book, from which he was 
reading. It was the book of Common Pra) er, 
and he read the marriage ceremony. 

In front of him were the bridegroom and 
bride; on one side stood Major Tracy, with a 
settled frown on his brow : a spacious arm- 
chair on the opposite side contained the form 
of the invalid Squire Waltham, who gazed 
with a half vacant, half imbecile stare upon the 
company around. At his elbow stood a gen- 
tleman of some fifty winters, attired in the un- 
dress of a colonel in the British army, and 
with an impressive countenance, marked by 
the lines of care and thought. He was named 
Colonel Musgrave, and he held the baton ol 
command over the fortieth regiment. The ar- 
rival of this gentleman had been somewhat 
late and hurried, for his boots were bespattered 
with mud, and his entire costume was marked 
by the unfinished and disarranged air that at- 
tends a journey undertaken and executed in 
haste. Opposite to this gentleman, and 
forming the right wing of the circle, was a 
young gentleman, attired as a cornetin the dra- 
goon service of his Majesty's th regiment, 

and with a face and air expressive of nothing 
in especial, except a very apparent desire to 
play as critical a part in his capacity of right 
wing of the picture, as his disordered dress and 
soiled boots would possibly admit. 

The bridegroom, arrayed in a lustrous coat 
of snow white silk, with small clothes and 
stockings to match, buckles of shining silver, 
and square toed shoes, seemed disposed to do 
particular justice to his situation as a pro- 
minent point of the picture. Halting on his 



OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 



153 



left leg, with the right advanced, he extended 
one delicate white hand, sparkling with rings, 
to the bride, displaying all the beauty and 
finish of the rufile at his wrist in the action, 
while his other hand was disposed very grace- 
fully, with the little finger deposited in a fold 
of his snow white and gaudily embroidered 
vest, as with his head erect, and his powdered 
hair flowing in graceful folds over his shoulder, 
Lieutenant Well wood Tracy looked straight 
forward over the head of the clerical gentle- 
man, and a complacent expression mantled 
over his face, which seemed to intimate that 
he considered himself a very fine point of the 
picture indeed, and worthy of the pencil of a 
Vandyke, or a Godfrey Kneller. 

The whole scene was a mockery of a solemn 
sacrifice, but the victim destined to be offered 
up at the altar, appeared in all the splendor of 
her queenly beauty even at that dread hour, 
when the utterance of a few simple words, 
and the transposition of a ring, would place 
her destiny in the hands of one, for whom she 
cared little, and of whom she knew less, and 
sever her fate from the silken cord that 
entwined it with the destiny of him whom 
she loved with all the purity and self devotion 
of a maiden passion. 

The golden hair, unconfined by band or 
cincture, fell in a shower of waving tresses 
over her robes of white, down to her very 
waist ; while with head drooped low, and eyes 
downcast, the maiden, scarce knowing what 
she did, tendered her hand — cold as the 
marble of a statue — to her gallant bridegroom, 
and muttered the responses of the ceremony 
with a vacant manner and absent air, as though 
her mind wandered amid the shadowy crea- 
tions of a dream. 

ILirry Heft beheld the scene at a glance, 
and as he gazed, he became instinctly aware 
of the relative positions of the parties. 

He had scarce time to think of some means 
of delivering the fair maiden, when the mar- 
riage ceremony reached the point, near its ac- 
complishment, where the last binding words 
are said, and the ring is placed upon the finger 
of the bride. At this moment Harry felt some 
one pressing against his shoulder, and a face 
touching his own, while his quick ear caught 
the sound of suppressed breathing. He 
turned his head aside, whispering — "Hist! 



Dennis !" when a hand, placed over his mouth, 
hushed the exclamation of sudden surprise 
that was bursting from his lips, and he beheld 
the face of Herbert Tracy gazing over his 
shoulder, with his lip compressed and his eye 
flashing, as he regarded the marriage scene 
within the apartment. 

Every lineament of his countenance wag 
impressed with an expression so strange, so 
dread, so unreal and fearful in its character, 
that the Ranger scarce might recognize the 
face of his Leader in that high forehead all 
seamed by deep wrinkles, and relieved by the 
hair, thrown wildly aside from the countenance ; 
the full, black eye, glaring from beneath the 
eyebrows ; the lips compressed as fixedly and 
firmly as those of a chiselled statue ; and the 
lines of each cheek so clearly marked with the 
settled appearance that betokens powerful yet 
suppressed emotion, and the entire visage, 
with every outline, shown in the boldest relief 
by the glaring light which streamed from the 
chandelier within the apartment, seemed so 
much changed and altered, that Harry Heft 
only knew his captain from the simple reason, 
that it were impossible to forget one lineament 
of the face and features that he had known 
and looked upon from earliest childhood. 

Harry felt his hand grasped by that of his 
leader, with a quick, hurried, but expressive 
movement — 

"As God lives, stand by me!" whispered 
the captain 

" As God lives, I will, to the death !" returned 
the soldier, in as deep a whisper. 

"With this ring thee I wed" — exclaimed 
the bridegroom within the apartment, as, 
bending aside with a most graceful bow, he 
took the fair hand of Marian in his own, and 
with a delicate movement of the thumb and 
forefinger of his right hand, proceeded to place 
the marriage ring on the ivory finger of the 
maiden. The gold had touched the finger of 
Marian, and every eye was fixed upon the 
twain ; Major Tracy smiled grimly, as he 
viewed the accomplishment of his scheme; 
the invalid father looked up into the face of 
his daughter ; the eyes of the clerical gentle- 
man wandered from his book ; and even the 
face of the colonel, as well as the cornet, 
betrayed some interest in the matter ; the ring, 
I say, had touched but not encircled the finger 



154 



HERBERT TRACY, 



when a rushing sound was heard, a hurried 
footstep, and the tall form of Herbert Tracy 
stood between the bridegroom and bride, the 
ring was dashed on the floor, and Wellwood 
Tracy was hurled aside, by a blow from the 
scabbard of the captain's sword. 

" She is mine ! Mine before God and 
Heaven I" exclaimed Herbert, as Marian fell 
in his arms, with a shriek and a glance of wild 
rapture, that told of recognition. " Mine 
before God and Heaven ! This for the man 
that shall say me nay !" 

Unsheathing his sword with his good right 
hand, he gathered the fainting maiden to his 
bosom with his other hand, and glanced around 
upon the bridal party, like a noble stag at bay, 
as he retired one step toward the window. 

Had some sudden and fearful spell fallen 
upon the stern Major Tracy, the invalid 
Waltham, the round-faced parson, the sedate 
colonel, the smooth-faced cornet, or the silken 
bridegroom, they could not, each and all of them, 
have formed more finished and perfect statues 
of surprise than they did for a single instant 
after Herbert had burst into the room. Had 
a column of fire shot upward from the floor; 
had a thunderbolt severed the ceiling, and 
scattered its rays of death at their feet ; had 
the mansion been rocked by the heavings of 
an earthquake — the bridal party, it is very 
Probable, would have been somewhat surprised, 
if not thunderstricken ; but here was a column 
of fire, thunderbolt, and earthquake, all com- 
bined in one form, and that form the figure of 
the gallant Ranger. I trow the bridal party 
were more than surprised. 

Herbert Tracy took advantage of this first 
instant of speechless astonishment, and pressing 
his betrothed closer to his bosom, strode with 
a hurried yet even step toward the window — 
"Mine she is before God and Heaven!" he 
cried — " mine by all that is good and hallowed ! 
Mine by her plighted troth — mine by her 
vows of love !" he continued, reaching the 
window, and extending his sword, while, with 
with a bitter sneer on his lip, he glanced around 
the room — "And think ye I will surrender my 
claim to any man that lives ? Curses may be 
heaped upon my head by him whom 1 am 
bound to name my father, and death and ruin 
may stand in my path, but still — by the Lord 
that lives — Herbert Tracy will not show 



himself unworthy of his name ! A merry 
even to you, gentlefolks !" 

Emerging from the window, he rushed 
across the porch, and stood beside the steeds 
that had so lately borne the colonel and the 
cornet to the bridal party, but which were now 
held ready for mounting, by Dennis at one 
bridle rein, and Harry at the other. 

" Mount, capt'in, mount" — cried Harry — 
" They're comin' — they're comin' ! Mount, 
and away down the Paper Mill Run road ! 
Push for the Quaker's farm house ! Mount, 
by the Continental Congress, mount !" 

Ere Harry had finished his favorite exple- 
tive, Herbert had sprang upon the stoutest of 
the steeds, and with the fainting Marian in his 
arms, struck for the road that led around the 
rock down to the Wissahikon. 

" Now's your time, Dennis ? If you've 
any sperrit in your lazy bones, mount that 
horse by the stable yonder — I'll mount this! 
Hurray, boy, for your neck's in danger ! Now, 
then — " cried the gallant trooper, as he sprang 
upon the cornet's horse, and enveloped his 
form in the blanket that hung at the saddle 
bow — "now then, 'Irish,' strike for Ritten- 
house's Mill, right across the fields — they'll 
mistake the fluttering of this blanket for the 
young lady's dress. Take the fields for it, 
and lead 'em on a wrong scent. By the 
Continental Congress — " 

"Yes, be jabers !" shouted Dennis. "Will 
it plase your leddyshep to ride th'e laste bit clo- 
ser to me ! Och, darlin* ! Whoop !" 

And off they went, like mad devils as they 
were, the sound of their horses' hoofs echoing 
far around, and the white blanket of Harry 
Heft fluttering in the moonlight, like the robe 
of an uneasy spirit, amusing itself with a mid- 
night ride. 

The sounds of the horses' hoofs roused the 
astonished bridal party from the spell of sur- 
prise, and with one assent, they rushed out on 
the portico, leaving the invalid in his arm- 
chair. 

" Call the servants " — shouted the Colo- 
nel — "Wilson, I say — where's that lazy 
trooper !" 

" There he goes !" muttered the enraged 
Lieutenant Tracy with an oath, as he ran from 
one end of the porch to the other ; " there he 
goes down ihe Wissahikon — by the G — s !" 



OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 



" 1 ra-yther think the've taken a cut across 
the fe-eld, Lev'tenant," lisped the cornet smi- 
ling at the idea of telling the whole story at the 
mess table. " There they go ! How her 
dwess does flattop," he continued, as the 
white blanket met his eye. 

Without a word, without an exclamation of 
surprise, did Major Tracy assemble the do- 
mestics, and rouse the trooper, who was sleep- 
Jig on a wheelbarrow near the stable door, un- 
der the influence of plentiful potations. 

A short and hurried council was held ; men 
were despatched to the stables at a hundred 
yards distance, to saddle other horses ; some 
started on foot in pursuit of the fugitives ; but 
amid all their conversation, their imprecations, 
and their vows of vengeance, the ears of the 
bridal party were saluted with the sound of 
the retreating hoofs, echoing from the grounds 
north of the mansion, to the road on the east, 
and from the road, through the woods to the 
grounds again. 

Full ten minutes elapsed ere horses could be 
saddled for the major, the colonel, the cornet, 
and the lieutenant ; and the oaths and impreca- 
tions of the three latter did not by any means 
tend to increase the speed of the domestics in 
their employment. 

" Scour the country in every direction !" 
shouted the colonel, as he beheld his compan- 
ions mounted, together with the half sober 
trooper and three of the domestics. " The fu- 
gitives cannot pass the British lines without 
alarming the picquets ! This side of the lines 
they're in our power ! Cornet, you will join 
me, with that drunken lout yonder, in pursuing 
the rebel captain across the field. Major, per- 
haps it would be best for you and the lieuten- 
ant to take the Wissahikon road. We can tra- 
verse the country in different directions, and 
meet at Rittenhouse's mill." 

Major Tracy nodded assent. 

44 Look ye, sirs," he exclaimed to the three 
stout fellows, who, with pistols in their hands, 
were mounted on strong fleet horses by his 
side. ''Look ye, sirs — should ye come 
across the fugitives, be careful that you do not 
harm the lady in white, Miss Waltham. You 
are all good marksmen — I'll make the man of 
you comfortable for life who shall pick the 
rebel officer in black from his horse ! Mark 



155 

ye — he is a traitor, and deserves no quarter ! 
Away I" 

And as they galloped away in various direc- 
tions, one of the frightened domestics, a weak 
and aged woman, entered the scene of the late 
bridal ceremony, and beheld the clerical gen- 
tleman, on his knees before Mr. Waltham, who 
was still seated in his arm-chair, with his head 
fallen to one side, his eyes closed, and his lips 
parted. The clergyman was engaged in cha- 
fing the hands of the invalid, aud the servant 
drew nearer, and looked over his shoulder into 
the face of the sick man, and started back 
with a cry of horror, as she discovered the 
ghastly paleness of his cheeks, the blue livid 
circles around his eyes, and the sunken eye- 
sockets. His spirit had gone from the scenes 
of marrying and giving in marriage, from the 
scenes of man's passions, and man's wrong to 
his fellow, from his daughter, his lands and his 
gold, up to that Tribunal that knows no earthly 
passion or prejudice, there — in the solemn 
words of the Sacred Book — " To give ac- 
count of the deeds done in the body." 



CHAPTER EIGHTH. 

THE PURSUIT. 

When Herbert Tracy flung himseif upon 
the steed of the British Colonel, and planting his 
spurs into the sides of the plunging animal, 
forced him to take the steep and winding road 
that led around the precipice, a thousand feel- 
ings rushed through his mind, and a wild 
tumult of oppressing thoughts agitated his 
brain, but amid all the contending feelings and 
oppressing thoughts, one idea was uppermost 
in his mind — a steady, firm and unalterable 
resolve to bear his betrothed away to some 
scene of safety, and a desperate purpose to 
part with his life ere the beautiful being, whose 
head now lay pillowed on his breast, should 
be torn from his embrace, by the rude hands 
of those who had, so mockingly, toyed with 
her plighted vows. 

Winding his arm yet closer around the 
waist of Marian, he dashed down the narrow 
path, plunged into the Wissahikon, and ascend- 
ing the opposite bank, gained the rocky road, 
which pursued its irregular course along the 
banks of the stream. As he flew along the 



156 



HERBERT TRACY, 



road with the speed of wind, the fresh and 
breezy night air, fanning the pallid cheek of 
the maiden, awoke her to consciousness, and 
Herbert felt the warm beating of her heart, 
throbbing against the hand which held her to 
his side. 

She opened her beaming blue eyes, and as 
the warm flush of youth and love again glowed 
on her swelling cheek, she cast a hurried glance 
around, as though she essayed to recall her 
wandering thoughts, and then while the whole 
truth flashed upon her, she wound her arms 
with a quick, convulsive movement, around 
the neck of her lover, her bosom rose and fell 
in the moonlight, and sinking her head upon 
his manly breast, she found relief from the 
tumult of opposing thoughts, in a flood of 
•tears. 

Herbert gazed upon her fair face with its 
beauty half upturned to the sky, and if ever, 
during his wild and dreamy life, he felt his 
soul swell with the feeling of intense happi- 
ness, and every nerve thrill with delight, it was 
at that moment, when her full and lustrous 
orbs were cast upward, with a glance so full 
of high and hallowed love, so full of all the 
trustfulness of woman's passion, and beaming 
with that winning confidence, unmodified by 
mistrust or doubt, which the vilest of mankind 
would hesitate to wrong or betray. 

The sounds of pursuit broke upon the air. 
Herbert had attained the point where the 
Paper Mills cast a lengthened shadow over the 
stream, and a quarter of a mile of forest road 
■ay between him and Rittenhouse's Mill. It 
was his purpose to avoid his pursuers, to seek 
the farm house of the Quaker, Joab Smiley, 
place his betrothed in safety till the morrow, 
then repass the British lines by the bed of the 
Wissahikon, and reach the Haunted House by 
•midnight. Marian — thought Herbert — could 
remain concealed in the farm house, with entire 
safety, until the coming day, when the fate of 
battle might enable him to place her in a situa- 
tion of greater security. 

The sounds of pursuit, the echoing of the 
horses* hoofs and the shouts of the pursuers, 
broke louder and nearer upon the stillness of 
the ni^ht, and sinking the rowels into the 
flanks of his steed, Herbert gave htm free 
rein, and in an instant the noble barb dashed 
along the road, while the monotonous beat of 



his hoofs upon the sod, betokened the ut- 
most stretch of his speed put to the test. 

A hundred yards lay between Herbert and 
Rittenhouse's Mill, and a hundred yards oe- 
hi d his pursuers came thundering along the 
road. The report of a pistol broke upon the 
air, and a bullet whistled by Herbert's ear at 
the same moment that \h a . voice of his father, 
urging the pursuit, rose high above all other 
sounds. 

"On — on — let him not escape with life! 
Let your aim be sure, and the bullet certain of 
its mark ! Onward, mv brave men, onward !" 

" I will foil them yet !" Herbert muttered 
between his teeth, as he recognized the tones 
of his father's voice. " Here is Rittenhouse's 
Mill — the moon has gone down, and the 
night is dark — now God help me!" 

As the exclamation rose upon his lips, the 
sound of horses' hoofs which rose in his rear, 
were echoed by similar sounds on the opposite 
bank of the stream, and the crashing of brush- 
wood and the rustling of branches, gave Her- 
bert warning- that his escape was cut off be- 
yond the Mill. 

1 he crisis came. The Mill was reached, 
the party on the opposite side came thundering 
through the woods, and the voice of M.yor 
Tracy was heard, nearer and yet more near ; 
when, reining his steed up against a small and 
perpendicular rock which peeped out from 
among a mass of brushwood, Herbert loosened 
his feet from tfte stirrups, and gathering his 
arm around the waist of Marian, with a firmer 
embrace, sprang from the horse, upon the 
rock, amid the shelter of the environing shrub- 
bery. 

As he sprang, the affrighted horse bounded 
forward, dashed through the stream, swept up 
the road that traversed the opposite hill, and 
with the speed of a bolt, driven from the bow, 
disappeared in the shade of the wood. 

As he disappeared, the party of Colonel 
Musgrave emerged from the woods on the op- 
posite bank of the stream. Almost at the very 
same instant Major Tracy with his men, 
rushed along with the speed of lightning, 
within an arm's reach of the spot upon which 
Herbert stood, and passing between the rock 
and the Mill, dashed into the Wissahikon, and 
ere he was aware he confronted the colonel 
and his company in mid-stream. 




(157) 



OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 



159 



" Which way went the fugitives ?" shouted 
Col. Musgrave. 

«• Do you not hear the horses' hoofs upon 
the hill !" replied the stern and commanding 
voice of Major Tracy — " away ! away ! We 
trifle — we lose time ! away !" 

" We'll have them now, by " exclaimed 

the voice of Lieutenant Wellwood. " They 
cannot be more than fifty yards ahead ! Now 
for 't my men !" 

And with one assent the pursuers joined 
their forces, and galloping up the opposite 
bank of the stream, in the direction taken by 
the steed which Herbert had just abandoned, 
their forms were lost in the shades of the forest, 
and the echoing of their horses' hoofs began to 
grew fainter on the air. 

Herbert had well calculated his address and 
dexterity, combined with an intimate acquain- 
tance with the spot, when he took the sudden 
leap from the saddle on to the rock, among the 
surrounding brushwood. In his youthful 
ramblings near the Mill, he had discovered a 
path, perhaps worn by the feet of Indians, an 
age before, winding along the nooks, the 
heights and recesses of the hills forming the 
eastern bank of the stream. The entrance 
to this path, within a few feet of the Mill, was 
hidden by the branches of the trees mingling 
with the light shrubbery, that grew upon the 
perpendicular rocks, separating the road from 
the forest. In the moment of peril, the mem- 
ory of the rock and the secret path flashed 
upon his mind, and in an instant, he availed 
himself of the remembrance, and eluded pur- 
suit in the very crisis of the chase. 

As the sounds of the pursuing party came 
softened and almost hushed by distance to the 
ears of the lovers, Herbert gave Marian the 
support of his arm, and they threaded their 
way along the winding path through the 
woods, until they emerged upon the meadow 
sloping from farmer Smiley's house down to 
the Wissahikon. Approaching the farm house, 
they found they had been preceded by Harry 
Heft and his friend Dennis, who it seems had 
succeeded in persuading the Quaker to receive 
the betrothed of Herbert, under the shelter of 
his roof, for a few days until the fortune of 
war might enable the lovers to unite their 
fates beyond danger of separation. After he 
naa seen Marian safe under the peaceful roof, 



and attended b« r the care of the young Quaker- 
ess, Herbert departed from the farm house, 
with a promise to return at the earliest moment 
that might afford an opportunity. Dennis and 
Harry proceeded to take their way to the Wis- 
sahikon on their return to the American lines, 
in another direction from that taken by Her- 
bert, who paused an instant on the bank of the 
stream, ere he plunged into the recesses of the 
woods. 

As he looksd back upon the quiet home of 
the Quaker farmer sleeping in the starlight, a 
fearful presentiment crossed his mind, that he 
should never gaze upon his betrothed again — 
that some dire calamity was hovering o^er 
their path — that some overwhelming evil, was 
even now gathering blackness upon the horizon 
of their sky, about to burst upon their heads, 
and crush every fair prospect of their lives un- 
der its leaden pall. 

44 Come what will" — -said Herbert, k4 come 
what will, my resolve is taken. My hand and 
sword shall be raised, first in defence of the 
hills and vales of this fair land of my birth ; 
and then in defence of the maiden, bound to 
me by the solemn vows of our blighted troth. 
Death may come, and ruin may threaten — » 
but their approach shall be met with honor" 

CHAPTER NINTH. 

THE COUNCIL. 

The hills and vales of the Wissahikon slept 
in the silence of midnight, when a solitary 
horseman issued from the mass of forest trees, 
near the Haunted House, and taking his way 
across an intervening field, presently reined in 
his steed along the front of the mansion. 

It was a small, one storied building, majked 
by a style of architecture which mingled the 
steep, gable-ended roof of a cottage, with the 
high and pointed windows of the Gothic order ; 
while the eves of the mansion were heavy 
with carved work, the window frames were 
decorated with quaint devices in wood ; the nu- 
merous chimneys by which it was surmounted 
seemed as much contrived for ornament as use 
and the general air and appearance of the 
place, indicated that it might have been the 
abode of some wealthy admirer of the country* 
who had here fixed himself a home amid the 
solitude and shade of the woods. 



1G0 



HERBERT TRACY. 



It was situated on a gentle eminence ap- 
proached by steps of stone, built in the grassy 
Dank, and the limited lawn which sloped from 
;hree sides of the picturesque edifice, was 
erminated by a pleasant grove of horse-chest- 
lut trees, giving an air of seclusion to the spot, 
jvhile the ground in the rear was occupied by 
i garden, once agreeably diversified with 

flowers, but now overgrown and choked by 

weeds. 

The edifice had, in fact, been the summer 
abode of a wealthy English merchant of Phila- 
delphia, who was scared from its precincts by 
the noise and confusion of war. 

Deserted by its proprietor, the mansion had 
fallen into partial decay, and was alternately 
occupied by marauding parties of the Ameri- 
can and British armies, who not unfrequently 
awoke the echoes of its quiet walls, with 
sounds of mirth and revelry, which, perchance 
was the occasion of its name — the Haunted 
House — the songs and yells of the drunken 
troopers being mistaken by the surrounding 
farmers for the cries and shrieks of spirits of 
the unreal world. 

As the horseman halted in front of the 
Haunted House, a figure, attired in the uniform 
of the Black Rangers, advanced from the shade 
of the horse chestnut treew, exclaiming — 

" Well, Capt'in, is that you ? Dennis and 
Leftenant Heft has just come in — I was 
afeared something mought a-happened to you." 

" Aye, Sergeant, I am back again without 
harm or injury. But tell me — has the com- 
mander-in-chief arrived ? If my eyes do not 
deceive me, those dusky masses, scattered 
across the fields yonder, are the American 
troops, and the glimmer of their arms in the 
starlight shows that they are ready for action 
at a moment's warning." 

Gineral Washington has arrived " — replied 
the Sergeant — " and the Black Rangers are 
honored with the post of 4 Guard around the 
Haunted House.' But with regard to the 
information, gathered to-night by the Ran- 
gers " 

Having been put in possession of this 
information, Herbert sprang from his horse, 
and was admitted by a sentinel into a front 
chamber of the mansion, where a glaring light, 
burning upon a large oaken table, discovered 
the h<jures of a number of officers, of various 



ranks and grades, attired in the blue and buff 
uniform of the Continental service. 

" It will be advisable to begin the attack 
before sunrise to-morrow morning," exclaimed 
the officer who sat at the head of the table, as 
Captain Tracy entered. " This is the plan of 
the battle agreed upon," he continued, laying 
his hand upon an unrolled chart which was 
spread open upon the table — " the divisions 
of General Sullivan and Wayne, flanked by 
the Brigade of General Conway, will enter 
the village of Gerrnantown, and commence the 
attack, with the light infantry of the enemy 
who are posted at Allen's House, at some three 
miles distance from this place. Ah ! Captain 
Tracy, I am glad to welcome you back ; how 
have you succeeded in your mission?" 

Herbert proceeded as briefly as possible to 
.relate to the Commanner-in-Chief, the various 
facts in his possession relative to the force, 
numbers, and position of the enemy. 

" The British line of encampment crosses 
the village of Gerrnantown at right angles," 
said Herbert, " near the centre. The left wing 
extends from the main road, across the irregular 
and enclosed grounds of the various farmers, 
over the Wissahikon along to the river Schuyl- 
kill. It is covered in front, by mounted and dis 
mounted chasseurs, and the right which extends 
eastward toward the Delaware, is defended in 
front by the Queen's American Rangers and 
a battalion of light infantry. The 40th regi- 
ment, under the command of Lieutenant Col. 
Musgrave, is posted nearly a mile in advance 
of the main line, between Chew's House and 
Chestnut Hill, and a battalion of light infantry 
occupies the summit of the hill, three miles in 
advance of this spot." 

" Your information, Captain Tracy," said 
the Commander-in-Chief, "agrees, in every 
essential point, with the data already in my 
possession. So, gentlemen, our original plan 
of battle holds good. While the divisions of 
Generals Wayne and Sullivan enter the village 
I y way of Chestnut Hill, the divisions of 
Greene and Stephens, flanked by McDougall's 
brigade, will take a circuit along the Limekiln 
Road, some two miles eastward from Chew's 
House, and attack the enemy's right wing. 
The Militia of Maryland and New Jersey, 
under command of Generals Smallwood and 
Forma n and march down the Old YorJc 



OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK HUNGERS. 



151 



Road, which lies three miles to the east of the 
Limekiln Road, and engage with the rear of 
fhe right. General Armstrong's Pennsylvania 
brigade will attack the enemy's left at Van- 
during's Mill, at the junction of the Wissahikon 
with the Schuylkill. Think you, Captain 
Tracy, that we shall be able to surprise the 
enemy?" 

« I think the movement n^?ht be effected, 
with care and celerity, your Excellency." 

A shade of thought came over the noble 
brow of the Commander-in-Chief, and he 
'eaned his head musingly upon his hand for an 
instant. 

"Gentlemen," he exclaimed, after the pause 
of a moment, " I need not tell you that every 
thing depends upon the suddenness and secresy 
of our movements. If we surprise the enemy, 
we shall terminate this disastrous war, and 
win the best of all boons, our country's Inde- 
pendence ; if the enemy are on the alert, and 
ready to receive us, it is more than probable 
that the superior discipline of his troops will 
triumph over the irregular bravery and undis- 
ciplined courage of a great portion of the army 
which I have the honor to command. What 
think ye, gentlemen ?" 

And as each hardy veteran or brave aspirant 
gave his opinion, the scene assumed an appear- 
ance of interest, which indicated the fixed de- 
termination of the American commanders, never 
to lay down the swords they so gallantly un- 
sheathed, until the independence of their com- 
mon country was achieved. 

The glaring light of the lamps, placed in the 
centre of the oaken table, cast a ruddy glow 
upon the faces and forms that clustered round 
the Commander-in-chiet 

His face so calm, so mild, and yet so 
full of that native dignity of expression, which 
tells of a mind formed to rule, was shown in 
the boldest light and strongest shade, as he 
turned from one brave man to another, to re- 
ceive their opinions and suggestions on the 
coming contest. 

There was the towering form, and bold and 
open countenance of Wayne, whose sword- 
thrust never failed, and whose charge mowed 
the enemy's ranks, like the scathings of an 
earth-riven thunderbolt; there was the gallant 
Knox, with his bluff, honest visage, every line 
beaming good humor, and dignified by an ex- 



pression of determined courage ; there was the 
sagacious Greene, whose councils were as full 
of wisdom as his sword was sure, and his 
mind clear and self-possessed in the hour of 
mortal conflict ; and there gathered around the 
man upon whose shoulders heaven had placed 
the destiny of his country, were the brave 
men, who flocking from every hill and vale of 
the continent, from foreign lands, from the mis- 
rule of despotism in every part of oppressed 
Europe, from the hearth sides of their infancy, 
and the homes of their manhood, and thronged 
in one gallant band around the banner of free- 
dom — there they stood with their good 
swords that had tasted blood in many a battle 
girded to their sides, with their noble visages 
marked by scars, and darkened by the toil and 
exposure of battle, and with hearts as true and 
bold as ever beat in the bosom of the most 
chivalric knight and daring warrior of the age 
of gallant deeds and generous warfare. 

And standing by the side of Washington, 
was a young soldier, whose form was moulded 
with all the symmetry of manly beauty, whose 
cheek was yet warm with the bloom of early 
youth, and whose piercing eye and high fore-- 
head, with its bold outline, indicative of the 
highest order of mind, gave rich promise of the 
mature man, whose words of burning eloquence, 
were, in future years, to fall on the ears of his 
countrymen, like the revelations of a seer. 

Washington, ever and anon, would incline 
his head to Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, and 
listen to the suggestions he offered, with an in- 
terest of which older men might have been 
proud, or invite his opinion with an eagerness 
that showed how strong a hold the young sol- 
dier had attained in the heart of his comman- 
der. Little did the father of his country think 
of the future fate of the aspiring soldier! . Lit- 
tle did he imagine that the youthful form by 
his side, would survive the perils of war, to die 
after the quietude of peace had succeeded to 
the strife of battle, in an inglorious combat, the 
fruit of a participation in the seenes of political 
conflict. 

The council lasted until an hour after mid- 
night, when the plan of operations for the suc- 
ceeding day being resolved upon, the various 
officers retired to their different commands, to 
snatch such hasty repose as the lateness of the 
hour might allow, and to make such arrange- 



1G2 



HERBERT TRACY, 



ments for the coming conflict as might tend to 
ensure success to the American arms. 

And under the broad canopy of heaven, un- 
sheltered from the dews and damps of the night 
air by covering or tent, slept the brave soldiers 
of the American host, as soundly, as securely, 
as though the coming morn was to bring 
scenes of peace and quietness, instead of tur- 
moil and bloodshed of battle. 

As Herbert Tracy stood gazing upon the 
scene around, from the elevation of the 
Haunted House ; as his eye wandered from 
the vast dome of the heavens above, hung with 
a million stars, to the landscape, with its hills 
covered with forests, its cultivated valleys, and 
its level fields, along which were scattered the 
masses of the Continental army, the thought of 
the coming contest, and of the fearful effects it 
might produce, flashed like a meteor-light 
across his mind. 

" How many a brave heart that now beats 
warmly, will to-morrow night be cold and tor- 
pid under the touch of death ! Many a noble 
form will measure out the hasty grave of the 
battle field — many an eye will be dimmed — 
many a hand stiffened, and many an arm un- 
nerved — but come success or come defeat, for 
me will remain the same forbidding destiny, 
over my head will lower the same dark cloud, 
heavy with the lightnings of a father's curse !" 

CHAPTER TENTH. 
THE BATTLE MORN. 

The morning of Saturday, the 4th of Octo- 
ber. 1777, dawned slowly and heavily. 

The sky was obscured by dimly defined 
masses of clouds and mist, which overhung 
the pathway of the sun, and extended, like 
one vast shroud, along the dome of heaven, 
enveloping hill, and plain, and stream, in the 
density of their folds. 

Objects were not discernible at more than 
fifty paces, and, not unfrequently, the weary 
eye of the soldier essayed in vain to define 
the outline of marching troops, opposing 
enclosures, brushwood or trees, not more than 
twenty paces in front of his path. 

As the first glimmering of dawn began to 
steal over the landscape, the American army 
resumed their march, unmarked by the roll of 
drum or the peal of trumpet. 

The only sound that disturbed the silence of 



the atmosphere was the monotonous tread of 
men and horses, shaking the earth, like the 
low moaning of far off thunder. Ever and anon 
the words of command, uttered in a suppressed 
tone, passed along the line. These sounds, min- 
gled with the jar of clanking swords, the shrill 
neigh of the mettled war-horse, and the thou- 
sand half subdued noises that accompany the 
movements of a large body of armed men, 
were all the tokens that served to warn the 
surrounding farmers and peasantry to flee from 
the scene of the approaching conflict. 

At the head of the central body, with Wavne 
on one side and Sullivan on the other, rode the 
Man of the Army, his tall form seeming yet 
more lofty, as it loomed through the mist, and 
his face impressed with an expression of solemn 
determination, as he gave to his various aids- 
de-camp the orders of the day, the directions 
regulating the march, or as he imparted farther 
instructions in relation to the attack and sur- 
prise. 

The deep and prolonged murmur and half- 
suppressed bustle, that was heard to the right 
and left of the. central body, served to show 
that the divisions of Greene and Stephen on 
the left wing, and the militia of Maryland and 
Jersey on the extreme left, as well as the 
brigade of Pennsylvania on the extreme right, 
were defiling east and west, to take their re- 
spective positions in the approaching struggle. 

As the central division advanced in regular 
order over the fields, and through the woods, 
that lay between the Haunted House and 
Chestnut Hill, the fog seemed to deepen, and 
the light of day served only to render the 
gloom more apparent, and objects around, more 
vague and shadowy. 

The Black Rangers were some two hundred 
yards in advance, and a quarter of a mile to 
the right of the main body, on the look out for 
the advanced parties of the enemy. They had 
arrived within a mile of Chestnut Hill, and 
were ascending a circular elevation, crowned 
with a thick copse, when the quick ear of 
Harry Heft first discerned the sounds of laugh- 
ter, the clank of swords, and the pattering of 
horses' hoofs, on the opposite side of the hill, 
beyond the woodo. 

" With your permission, Captain, I'll jisl 
ride up to the top 'o the hill and see what thtiu 
suspicious sounds might mean. ' 



OR THE LEGEND OP TIIE BLACK RANGERS* 



163 



«« Do so, Lieutenant," replied Herbert. 44 It 
strikes me that your eye will discover some 
stray foraging party who have lost their way 
in the fog. Just approach near enough to as- 
certain their force and position — don't thrust 
yourself heedlessly into danger." 

44 And sure, Capt'in," exclaimed Dennis, 
* 4 mightn't it be jest as well for meself to ride 
to the opposite side of the hill, in a different 
direction from that taken by the Leftenant, and 
take a dacent peep at the Britishers — if Brit- 
ishers they be?" 

The Captain nodded assent, and while the 
party halted, at some fifty paces from the copse 
at the summit of the elevation, Harry Heft put 
spurs to his horse, and galloped around the 
eastern side of the ascent, while Dennis pur- 
sued his way toward the western side. 

Harry passed through the copse, and gained 
the opposite brow of the hill, where, reining in 
his steed, he tried to discover the nature of the 
ground. Below him, for some twenty paces, 
the hill sloped down in a gentle descent, and 
was then lost in the obscurity of the fog, from 
the bosom of which, far down in the valley, 
came drunken shouts, mingling with snatches 
of songs, and the sound of horses' hoofs. 

"Let's see," soliloquized Harry, 44 where 
am I, and what's this place like ? Ah ! now I 
have it— this hill slopes down into a small 
valley, which it encircles in the shape of a new 
moon — and now that I think of it, there is a 
level outlet from it toward the south, opening 
into a flat bottomed piece of swampy ground. 

On all other sides it is circumvented by a 
eemi-circular woods, and it strikes me, them 
strangers, whoever they be, must be takin' a 
frolic right in the lap of the hollow. By the 
Continental Congress, what's that ?" 

The sound that attracted Harry's attention, 
was the quick and sudden noise of horses' 
hoofs, mingled with vindictive shouts, as though 
their riders were inclose pursuit of an enemy. 
Nearer and nearer the sounds of pursuit drew, 
and Harry was about to obey the impulse of 
the moment and rush down into the valley, 
when the jarring report of a pistol broke upon 
the air, and the concussion lifted the fog for 
some fifty paces below the spot where stood 
the gallant Ranger. 

As the mist slowly rose, like the upraising 
of a vast curtain, Harry beheld a sight that 



sent the blood, in one wild, warm current, to 
his heart. 

Quick as the lightning flash he beheld two 
soldiers in the crimson uniform of British 
troopers, mounted on stout, fleet horses, gal- 
loping up the hill at the top of their speed, 
their swords suspended in the air, and their 
arms nerved to strike a wounded man, who 
drooping to one side of his steed, essayed to es- 
cape, while his noble horse made almost super- 
natural efforts to bear his rider from the scene 
of danger. 

At the same instant that Harry saw the 
wounded man and his pursuers, he beheld a 
body of some dozen dragoons galloping in the 
rear ; while down the hill, in the centre of the 
valley, the main force of the company (some 
twenty troopers in all) were gathered around a 
fire, in the act of springing upon their horses, 
as if disturbed by some unexpected alarm. 

Scarce had Lieutenant Heft time to gather 
these particulars at a hurried glance, and ere he 
could draw a bridle rein, or give his horse the 
spur, he discovered that the wounded man was 
none other than his companion Dennis, and at 
the same moment his cry for quarter broke 
upon the air ; but the uplifted swords of 
the dragoons descended, winged with all the 
force of their muscular arms, and the body of 
the American Ranger was hurled to the earth, 
while the riderless horse dashed by Harry 
Heft with his neck arched, his eyes distended* 
his mane flying, and the saddle on his back 
smoking with his master's blood. 

Raising his rifle to his eye, with his blood 
boiling at the thought of the merciless carnage 
which had taken, place under his very eyes — 
Harry Heft broucrht the barrel to bear upon the 
foremost of the troopers, and, in a flash, a life- 
less body fell from the war horse, and the green 
sod bore upon its bosom the murderer and the 
murdered — the dragoon in his scarlet attire 
and gay trappings, and the free hear'ed Irish- 
man in his uniform of black, changed to a 
ghastly purple by the blood that poured in 
gushing torrents from his heart. 

The sharp crack of Harry's rifle had not 
ceased to ring upon the air, when the war 
shout of the Black Rangers swelled through th? 
woods, and in an instant, dashing through the 
copse, as one man, the brave 44 twenty-four," 
1 with Herbert at their head, followed Harry 



161 



HERBERT TRACT, 



iown the hill at the top of their horses' speed, 
every man with his short, straight sword raised 
in the air, adding vigor and volume to the yell 
of vengeance which arose from the hand, as 
svery eye beheld the bleeding form of Dennis 
the Irishman 

Down the hill they came, their gallant steeds 
moving with one impulse, as though they were 
but limbs of the same vast animal. At the 
sight, the twelve British Dragoons halted half 
way up the hill, in the full sweep of their 
career, and with horses recoiling on their 
haunches, seemed scarce to know whether to 
face the advancing avalanche, or to fly before 
its approach. 

Not an instant had they for reflection, for 
the Black Rangers came on toward them with 
the speed of a thunderbolt and the voice of 
Harry Heft was heard above all other sounds — 
" Rangers — Dennis cried for quarter, and 
they murdered him ! Shall we give them 
quarter ?" 

" No quarter," shouted Herbert Tracy, rais- 
ing himself in his stirrups and measuring the 
distance between his men and the twelve 
dragoons, with a glance of his eye, " no 
quarter ! The bullet and the sword for the 
caitiffs. Over them, Rangers, over them!" 

" No quarter 1" echoed the Rangers, " no 
quarter !" 

" Dennis McDermott !" shouted Harry. 

" The trumpeter boy !" replied Sergeant 
Brown. " Over them \ Down with the 
caitiffs !" re-echoed the Rangers, with one 
voice, " no quarter !" 

And in one compact body, of four abreast, 
with their steeds presenting a firm and un- 
wavering front, the Black Rangers passed like 
a whirlwind over the shrinking forms and re- 
coiling horses of the twelve dragoons. 

And as the Nighthawks swept on, with 
their front unbroken and their ranks undis- 
turbed, the British soldiers rolled on the earth, 
some crushed beneath the weight of their 
horses, others with their arms and legs broken 
— and others pouring forth their lives on the 
sod, from the mortal gash inflicted by the short 
swords of the Rangers, in the very crisis of 
their charge. All of them, man and steed, were 
scattered upon the earth, an indiscriminate 
mass of crushed bodies, of mangled horses and 
dying men. 



As the Rangers passed on in their career of 
death, down the hill and toward the centre of 
the valley, the main body of the British dra- 
goons formed in solid phalanx in the level of 
the vale, presenting a front of four abreast, with 
a wood on either side of their position, and the 
passage of the glen visible in their rear. 

The fog had been raised from the bed of the 
valley, by the action of the large fire which the 
dragoons had kindled, and the light wreaths 
of mist curled gracefully among the tree-tops 
and around the hills, leaving the small level 
plain perfectly clear from all obscurity, and 
free from all exhalations. 



CHAPTER ELEVENTH. 

THE CHARGE. 

The British Dragoons awaited the approach 
of the Rangers with sword drawn, and steeds 
firmly planted against each other, in a solid 
parallelogram, and with the determination to 
avenge their comrades, whom they could not 
save, visible in each countenance, in the flash- 
ing eye, the curling lip, and scowling brow. 

The Americans came thundering on, and 
twenty paces lay between them and their foes. 

Another moment and they would join in 
deadly contest, swords would Ikish, and bullets 
whistle, and their blood intermingle like streams 
of water. 

At this moment, when every breath was 
hushed with intense expectation, the deep- 
whispered word of command came from the 
lips of Herbert Tracy, and with the celerity of 
thought, his men divided from one another, like 
drops of rain from the bustling cloud, and in 
an instant, the forms of twelve of their body 
were concealed in the wood to the right of the 
British soldiers, while the other twelve with 
Tracy at their head, sought ihe cover of the 
forest on the opposite side of the vale. 

Each Ranger reined his steed up by the 
trunk of some giant tree, and lifting his rifle to 
his shoulder, brought its tube to bear upon the 
head of a particular dragoon, or in common 
parlance " picked his man ;" and as the British 
soldiers turned to pursue their scattered foes, 
a stunning report broke from the woods on 
either side, and of the twenty-three rifle balls, 
nineteen proved faithful to the aim, and as 




11 



(165) 



OR TEE LEGEND OP TIIE BLACK RANGERS. 



IGT 



many steeds were without riders, while the 
ground was strewed with the British dead. 

Herbert, too, had raised his rifle, and selected 
for his mark, the breast of the commander of 
the party, the barrel was levelled, his finger on 
the trigger, but at that instant the officer in 
issuing some hurried command to his men, 
turned his face toward Captain Tracy, and the 
arm of the Partizan Leader dropped nerveless 
by his side. 

He beheld the face of Lieutenant Wellwood 
Tracy, and he could not kill him. 

Lieutenant Wellwood Tracy, his antagonist 
m love, in honor, in the affections of his 
father ; the man who made no scruple of 
usurping every right belonging to him by the 
decree of God and nature, was before him, in 
the line of his rifle, and yet he could not fire. 

The British Lieutenant looked confusedly 
round the dead and the dying about him. 

Ere he could attempt an escape, he was 
surrounded by the two divisions of the Rangers, 
uniting from either side of the vale, with the 
tall form of Herbert Arnheim Tracy towering 
in the midst. 

" Dennis Mc Dermott !" shouted Harry Heft, 
whose blood was turned tc gall, in his stern 
determination to avenge the Irishman — 
" Down with the Britisher ! No quarter !" 

" The trumpeter boy !" cried Sergeant 
Brown — " No quarter !" 

44 No quarter !"' re-echoed the Rangers, and 
twenty-three swords were unsheathed over the 
head of Wellwood Tracy. 

The British Lieutenant glanced hurriedly 
around, and seemed endeavoring to recover his 
self-possession, when Herbert Tracy threw his 
horse between the Rangers and the object of 
their anticipated vengeance. 

" Rangers, I beg this man's life of ye V he 
exclaimed — " He must not, shall not be slain ! 
Lieutenant Tracy, you are my prisoner." 

44 So I perceive," observed the Lieutenant, 
with a ghastly attempt at humor. 44 But a 
mom- nt since, you might have been indebted 
to thfe^e gentlemen for ridding you of the care 
of a prisoner, in the most expeditious, if not 
the most honorable way. You might, by — !" 

*• It is ill jesting with men whose swords are 
whetted for blood, by the sight of a murdered 
comrade," replied Herbert, placing himself at 
the head of his men, and galloping toward the 



spot, where Dennis McDermott had been 
murdered, 44 look to your prisoner Sergean 
Brown." 

The Rangers arrived on the spot half waj 
up the hill, where lay the dying Ranger — 
for life had not yet altogether departed from 
his manly frame. 

He was terribly gashed ; a deep sword 
wound laid open the scalp of his head, and his 
shoulder blade was broken, by a downward 
blow that had evidently been inflicted by no 
weak arm. A stream of blood flowed without 
intermission from a bullet wound near his heart 
and the crimson current had flooded the sod 
on which he lay, and was now trickling down 
the hill. 

44 Dennis, my hoy," said Harry, kneeling 
beside the wounded mm, 44 look up, Dennis, 
my boy ! We paid the scoundrels for their 
treachery — we did ! For every drop of your 
blood, a bucket-full of the British puddle has 
been spilt. Look up, Dennis, my boy !" 

The dying man passed his hand over his 
eyes, and wiped away the blood, which 
streamed from his gashed forehead, and ob- 
scured his vision. 

44 Ye paid 'em did ye ?" he exclaimed, 
faintly, as Harry supported his head. 

44 Aye, did we. Thirty of the red coats 
have bitten the dust." 

44 Thirty, did ye say ? be jabers, Harry — 
ochone ! The wife and the childer be the 
Lake — the Lake of Kill — Kill Och ! I'm 
kilt meself. Will ye not wipe the blood out 
o' my eyes, Harry Heft — I'd like to see — 
to see — sure the sun's going down, Harry 
Heft, and its getting dark — It's a lone world 
I'm going to, Harry Heft, and niver a priest 
to show me the way. Remimber me, Harry 
— masses for me sowl — Och ! but it's dark !" 

And with a rattling sound in the throat, like 
suffocation, the brave Ranger made a desperate 
struggle, as though he were wrestling with an 
invisible foe, and then, with a faint attempt to 
clear the blood away from his eyes, he sunk 
into the arms of Harry Heft, and ceased to 
live. 

Large, burning tears streamed down the 
bluff Ranger's cheeks, as he gazed at the life- 
less corse. 

44 If I don't make 'em pay for this," he 
muttered, and paused for a moment — and then 



r 



1G8 IIESBER' 

adde 3 in a lower tone — " it's no matter ; that's 
ill." 

44 Comrades !" exclaimed Sergeant Brown, 
" we'll have to shout two watchwords in the 
field to-day. ' This for the trumpeter boy* for 
ever shot we fire, and 4 that for Dennis Mc- 
Dermott' for every sword cut we make." 

A deep murmur of assent arose from the 
Rangers, who, with their Captain, gathered 
round the corse of the murdered man. 

"I am really sorry," exclaimed Lieutenant 
Well wood Tracy advancing, " that my drunken 
troopers, by such a barbarous act, should have 
provoked such a sanguinary massacre of my 
vhole command — I am sorry, by — !" 

" Lieutenant Tracy," interrupted Herbert, j 
" if you are willing to give me your parole of j 
honor, not to bear arms against the American 
forces until you are properly exchanged, I will i 
accept it, and you may depart at your own 
pleasure." 

The Lieutenant seemed not very well pleased 
at this sudden interruption ; however he gave 
his parole of honor, mounted his horse, and 
galloped toward the British lines. 

Callous and cold-hearted as was Lieutenant, 
Tracy, it was not without some feelings of 
emotion, that he looked back, from the passage 
of the vale, to the scene of the late skirmish, 
and marked in place of the lusty soldiers who 
had accompanied him thither, the mangled 
forms of the dying and the dead strown over 
the sod, which was crimsoned with their 
blood. 

" Mount, Rangers, and away !" shouted 
Herbert. 44 Hark ! They are in action at Chest- 
nut Hill ! Mount, and away !" 

44 Captain Tracy," exclaimed a voice from 
among the heap of wounded and dying, 44 for 
a cup of water, I can tell ye a tale that it might 
like ye to hear. Miss Walthana — " 

» Miss Waltham ? What of her ?" 

44 The water first — the water — " mur- 
mured the wounded man. 

The water was brought from a brooklet, 
that ran down the side of the hill, and having 
drained the canteen to the last drop, the trooper 
proceeded with his story. 

He proved to be the drunken soldier who 
had come in contact with Harry at the Quaker's 
house, whyre he had been suffered to rest 
t.nder the table until late at night. By some 



: Til ACT, 

means or other, he became aware that Miss 
Waltham was in the farm nouse. Wandering 
along the fields, he fell in with his master, the 
Lieutenant, who was just returning to camp 
after the fruitless search for his bride. He 
presently became aware of Miss Walthain's 
hiding place, and with Col. Musgrave pro- 
ceeded to the farm house — informed the young 
lady that they felt bound to escort her across 
the country, to the mansion of a friend, where 
the Colonel was quartered, and where she 
could remain, until the pleasure of her father 
might be known. Miss Waltham begged to be 
taken to her father's house, but that was impos- 
sible, the Colonel said ; they were bound to 
hurry across the country and be with their 
commands by daybreak ; and the only way 
left them to manifest their interest in her safety, 
and protect her from the violence of a rebel 
leader, (they affected to treat Herbert as an 
entire stranger) was to request her attendance, 
to the mansion of a common friend. Glad, at 
all events, to have escaped the hated marriage, 
Miss Waltham, yielded her consent, to what 
she could not well refuse, and accompanied 
the Colonel and Lieutenant to the mansion 
which they designated. 

44 Well, my wounded terror of turkies," 
exclaimed Harry, when the trooper had pro- 
ceeded thus far, 44 had I known last night that 
you had been up to cuttin* sich deviltries, I'd 
put a stopper on you, mighty quick. I say, 
Captain, these red coats are swelling their 
account — it 'ill be full a'ter a while." 

44 Mount, Rangers, mount, and away !" 
shouted Herbert, who had mused deeply on 
the trooper's story — 44 we will have warm 
work to-day, by that firing yonder. Away, 
Nighthawks V 9 



CHAPTER TWELFTH. 

THE ATTACK THE CHASE THE HAVOC. 

44 Look!" shouted Herbert Tracy, as he 
halted his steed for an instant on the brow of 
a hill, within pistol-shot of the German town 
Road, below Mount Airy. 44 Look ye, my 
Rangers, how the Loyalists flee ! See how 
the Continentals *weep all before them — 
there's Mad Anthony — I'd swear to the 
stroke of his sword — and there's Pulaski — 
there's Washington in the very centre of th* 



OR THE LEGEND OP THE CLACK RANGETL3. 



169 



mel-ee. A bJow for Washington, Rangers ! 
Wlioop and away !" 

"With an answering shout, the Rangers 
dashed down the hill, and swept across the 
plain, toward the Germantown Road. 

While Herbert Tracy was engaged with 
the troop of Lieutenant Wellwood, a mile 
westward of Chestnut Hill, the central body 
of the American troops, under Wayne and 
Sullivan, with Washington at their head, had 
reached Mount Airy, surprised a battalion of 
Sight infantry, lodged in Allen's house in that 
vicinity, and by a bold and determined move- 
ment, drove the enemy before them at pleasure, 
following up the work with all the flush and 
heat of an unexpected triumph. Scattering 
their arms along the way, or ever and anon 
turning to face their pursuers, the remains of 
the battalion of light infantry proved the apt- 
ness of their name, and, in the course of fifteen 
minutes, fled precipitately down the German- 
town Road, for the distance of three-quarters 
of a mile, until they reached the point where 
the 40th Regiment was stationed, under the 
command of Col. Musgrave. 

Here the attack was renewed with all its 
vigor, and the American soldiers pressed for- 
ward as one man, and engaged with the British, 
muzzle to muzzle. Col. Musgrave was seen 
hurrying hither and thither along the lines, 
and the form of a tall, dark-browed man, in 
the dress of a private citizen, with a star of 
honor on his left breast, was ever at his 
shoulder, aiding him in his attempts to restore 
confidence to his men, and riding in the very 
thickest of the fight. 

But it was in vain. 

In vain did the British infantry plant their 
muskets in the sod, and, sinking on one knee, 
present to the advancing Americans a wall of 
bristling bayonets. 

The charge of Wayne came thundering on, 
and his loud war-cry — "Upon them! over 
them !" rose above the din of battle. In vain 
did the British dragoons form in one solid 
front, and with upraised sword, sweep on to 
meet the American infantry. They were 
received mid- way by the fire of the back- 
woodsmen, each rifle marking its man ; and 
each shot told as surely and effectually as 
though it was aimed at an inanimate rather 
than a living mark. 



The confusion of the scene increased with 
each moment. Vast clouds of thick smoke 
began to roll in heavy folds over the field of 
contest, and from its bosom flashed the glare of 
musquetry, and the blaze of the rifle, while 
the clash of intermingling swords, the shouts of 
the combatants, the yells of the dying, the 
shrieks of the wounded, swelled upward to the 
Heaven, in one fearful chorus. A chorus more 
terrible to hear, than the roar of the earthquake 
cello wing through the caverns of the earth, or 
the yell of the storm, bursting in thunder clans 
around the summit of Chimborazo. 

These sounds strike us with preternatural 
fear and awe, but the confusion of a bat- 
tle-field not only thrills us with a feeling of 
indefinable awe. but awakens our sympathies 
almost to madness. In every shout, a man 
formed like ourselves bites the dust, in every 
groan the earth is crimsoned with the life cur- 
rent of the wounded, in every peal of mus- 
quetry a score of souls wins their way from all 
the flush of life and vigor of early manhood, 
up to that unseen and spiritual world which 
is invested with the brightest hopes and darkest 
terrors of the human mind. 

At this crisis of the contest, Captain Tracy, 
at the head of his Rangers, came rushing on 
to join the tide of conflict. Every man with 
his head erect, his sword drawn, and his night- 
hawk plume fluttering in the wind swelled the 
shout of vengeance, they poured upon the 
British host. As each rifle winged its bullet, 
— as each sword sought its living sueath, the 
war cry of the Rangers rose high above all 
other sounds — "This for Dennis McDer- 
mott !" " This for the trumpeter boy !" 

" It is in vain !" cried Colonel Musgrave to 
the gentleman in citizen's dress who stood at 
his side — " Major Tracy we must beat a re- 
treat ! The rebels fight like incarnate devils ! 
Away — away to the main body — away to- 
ward Chew's house !" 

As the order was passed along the British 
line, the Americans followed up the attack 
with increased zeal, and the scene became 
one of deadly chase and precipitate pursuit on 
the Continental side, and of hurried rout and 
confused retreat on the part of his Majesty's 
40th regiment. 

In utter confusion, and heedless of all svs- 
tem or regularity of march, the British soldiers 



no 



HERBERT TRACY, 



fled along the Germantown road, toward the 
main line, at the distance of three-quarters of a 
mile. 

"Now, Wayne, now!" shouted Washing- 
ton, as he rode in the van of the chase — 
" Follow up the blow and we have them !" 

44 See ! how they fly !' ? exclaimed Herbert 
with an outburst of the wild excitement of the 
scene, 44 On Rangers, on ! This for Dennis 
McDermott ! Over them, Rangers, over them ! 
This for the trumpeter boy !" 

"This lor Dennis McDermott!" shouted 
Harry Heft at each stroke. 

44 This for the trumpeter boy ! This for 
Dennis McDermott!" re-echoed the Rangers, 
as they rode over the retreating enemy, and 
scattered panic and confusion among the Brit- 
ish by their singular appearance, their uniform 
of sable, their short sword, which they used 
with a celerity and expedition that defied all 
the tactics of the European soldiers, and their 
rifle that uttered its volume of flame every 
instant, while their jet black horses swept on 
with the speed of wind. 

Meanwhile, far on the American left, to the 
westward of Chew's house, Greene engages 
with the enemy's right, and the militia of 
Maryland and Jersey attack his rear, at the 
same time that the Pennsylvania troops pour 
down the Ridge Road, and throw their force 
upon the left of the British wing. 

The sounds of battle disturbed the quiet 
shades of Wissahikon, and resounded over the 
fields, along the village, to the hills on the 
east. Every movement of the combatants 
tended to make Germantown the centre of the 
contest. 

The fog which had been raised for a moment 
at sunrise, again descended upon the landscape, 
and involved the scene of strife in mist and 
darkness that gave additional horror to the 
fight. As the divisions of Wayne and Sulli- 
van swept along the Germantown Road in the 
pursuit of the enemy's 40th regiment, the 
conflict, to the British left, began to deepen, 
and the smoke of battle rolled over the farm 
house of the Friend Joab Smiley, who stood 
gazing from a window upon the scene of strife 
and bloodshed. 

Dame Smiley sat in one corner of the 
apartment with her face buried in her hands, 
to veil her eyes from the vivid flashes of the 



cannon, which like lightning ever and anon 
streamed through the windows. 

Her daughter, the fair Marjorie, with her 
dark hair all dishevelled, and her hands 
clasped in silent prayer, buried her face in 
her mother's bosom, in a half-kneeling, half- 
reclining position, while her bosom heaved 
upward from its scanty covering, and sobs 
and sighs of undefmable terror convulsed her 
slender form. 

Near the mother and daughter, with his 
large eyes fixed upon his massive, paw-like 
hands, which were laid upon his knees, sat 
the negro, 44 Charles the First," whose wan- 
derings across the country, on his way to 
Major Tracy's mansion had been suddenly 
terminated by the conflict of the opposing 
armies. He had been forced to seek shelter 
in the farm house of the Quaker. 

Apart from all the others, looking from the 
northern window of the apartment, stood the 
Quaker farmer, his muscular form raised to its 
full height, his head erect, and his stout arms 
folded upon his prominent chest, as he gazed 
sternly upon the scene of conflict. 

The surrounding hills and woods were 
enveloped in the thick fog which enshrouded 
the entire face of the country, yet still the 
Quaker could perceive the forms of men min 
gling in deadly conflict, and the red glare of 
the cannon would for an instant lift the curtain 
of mist, and the scene of death was laid bare 
to his view. 

44 There — there — is the flag of the Con- 
tinentals," he exclaimed — " Now it is down — 
there sails the cross — the blood red cross ot 
the British men. Verily, it is terrible to see 
so much strife and bloodshed. Now the 
Americans march up the hill — there go their 
war horses — now they are driven back — 
Ha! — Verily!" 

The Quaker drew a long breath, and stifled 
the exclamation that was about to issue from 
his lips. 

" I am a strong man," muttered the farmer, 
44 and I stand and look on while my neighbors 
are murdered. Verily, Hannah, I will even 
go forth to the field — I will go forth to the 
field, Hannah — Ha! Verily!" 

44 Surely, Joab" — exclaimed his wife, start- 
ing on her feet — "thee will not so far forget 
thee God, and thee brethren, as to mingle 



OR THE LEGEND OP THE BLA.CK RANGERS. 



171 



the strife of battle? Joab — Joab — I cannot 
think thus hardly of thee '." 

" Father ! father !" — shrieked Marjorie — 
" thee will not peril thy life among the men 
of war — father, go not forth" — 

The maiden's utterance was choked by 
sobs, and she fell weeping upon her mother's 
shoulder. 

"Ha! verily! I will go forth — alone — 
there may be wounded who cry in vain for the 
cup of water — the maiden Waltham may be 
in danger. Harry Heft may be dying, and I 
standing here like a block of stone, looking 
calmly on. I must go forth to the field, wife — 
hold me not, daughter. I must forth — I'll 
be with ye presently" — 

" Sure's my name's Chawls de Fust" — 
exclaimed the negro, rising from his deep 
cogitations, " I'll go to Massa Chew's house, 
too. Miss Waltham may be dar alone, and 
de debble to pay. De Britishers may shoot 
me — I hab but one life — Massa Smiley, I 
go wid you. Dat am a fac." 

" Charles, thee is a good fellow. Come 
with me, if thy heart fails thee not. Nay, 
wife, I must go forth to the field !" 

The Quaker and the negro servant issued 
from the farm house door, and took their way 
to the field of contest, and while the mother 
and daughter gazed from the window, they 
disappeared in the folds of the surrounding 
fog. 



CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. 
chew's house. 

" There is but one hope for us !" shouted 
Colonel Musgrave, as his regiment rushed in 
full retreat toward the British line. " One 
hope, Major Tracy ! If that fails, our forces 
will be defeated — Philadelphia re-taken — 
and the. rebel cause triumphant! We must 
make a fortress of Chew's House — yonder 
mansion of stone — its walls are in some 
places three feet thick, and we can hold the 
place for hours ! Away to Chew's House !" 

Major Tracy, by his words and example, 
encouraged the scattering regiment to press on- 
ward toward the mansion which stood re- 
tired from the road at the distance of near two 
hundred yards. It was, and is, a substantial 
edifice, built of massive stone, which will re- 



sist the tooth of time for ages. It stands 
facing the road, with two wings of stone sup- 
posting it in the rear, and toward the north — 
at the time of the Romance — the edifice pre- 
sented a plain side of stone, only varied by two 
deep-silled windows, which gave light to that 
part of the mansion, one in the first and the 
other in the second story. The roof descends 
with a gentle slope, and the eves are defended 
by massive cornices, which give an appearance 
of solidity and strength to the building* 

In front of Chew's mansion, on the battle 
mosn, lay a wide lawn, reaching ov<er two hun 
dred yards to the main road of the village, ex- 
tending south the same distance, and spreading 
toward the north, in an open field, of some four 
hundred in yards extent. 

This lawn was defended along the road by 
a wall of stone, and a few trees were scattered 
here and there over iis surface, while an enclo- 
sure of sheds and fences, for confining cattle, 
was pitched some fifty yards to the north of 
the mansion, in direct view of the northern 
windows. 

In the north window of the second floor of 
the mansion, Marian Waltham sat gazing 
through the gloom and obscurity of the mist„ 
upon the lawn that encircled the edifice. 

Her fair bosom trembled with indefinable 
terror as she listened to the increasing tumult of 
battle, with her head inclined to one side, her 
blue eyes brightening with interest, and hei 
lips parted with intense anxiety. 

This terror the kind offices of the house- 
keeper of the mansion, whose portly form was 
seated at her side, in vain endeavored to dispel 
or assuage. 

" La ! Miss Waltham, what's the use of 
taking on so !" exclaimed the housekeeper, 
giving the keys at her side an important rattle. 
" As sure as my name's Betty Fisher, and as 
sure as Mr. Chew's family are at Philidelphy, 
leaving me to take care of this place, as sure as 
I've had to pervide for Col. Musgrave, and all 
his rampaging red-coats, jist so sure will you 
be as safe here, as though you were in your 
own father's parlor, over on the Ridge Road. 
" And so a rascally re'iel run off with you — 
did he? The rngnmufiin! Jist as you were 
a-gom" to be married, too ? How impolite — " 

Miss Betty Fisher's round and rubicund 
face assumed an expression of intense curiosity 



HERHKRT TRACY, 



and her voluminous figure moved closer to 
Miss Waltham's side. 

" How kind in Col. Musgrave to rescue you 
from the rebel's clutches ! I b'lieve my heart 
that old Quaker was at the bottom of it all — 
I do! Jist to think — goodness grashus ! 
What's that — coming from the fog — oh! 
Lud !" 

Miss Waltham gazed with a hurried gesture 
from the window, at the exclamation of the 
housekeeper, and beheld, rushing from the 
depths of the fog — which concealed all ob- 
jects beyond thirty paces — a confused band of 
British soldiers, some mounted, others on foot, 
who ran with shouts and imprecations tow- 
ards the hall door which opened on the lawn. 

The soldiers continued to pour along the 
lawn in the same irregular stream, regardless 
of discipline or order ; some of their number 
were covered with blood ; others had their 
uniform soiled and torn ; others were destitute 
of arms, and the entire body presented all the 
appearances that accompany defeat and dis- 
may. 

" There's Col. Musgrave !" screamed Betty 
Fisher, " and there's Major Tracy all covered 
with dust and blood, among the rampaging 
troopers ! Oh ! Lud ! here's a purty how d'ye 
do — and in Mr. Chew's house, too ! Good- 
ness grashus !" 

Ere Marian had time to w r onder at the ap- 
pearance of Major Tracy and Col. Musgrave, 
in the plight in which she saw them, the room 
in which she was seated was filled with Brit- 
ish soldiers, and Miss Betty Fisher hurried her 
fair charge away, to an obscure corner of the 
mansion. 

While the preparations for an obstinate de- 
fence were progressing in every part of the 
mansion, the American troops, in pursuit of 
the flying enemy, arrived in full chase, along 
the Germantown Road, in front of the field in 
which the edifice was situated. 

Herbert Tracy, with his men, placed to- 
gether with the Partizan Legion of the brave 
Lee, near the person of the Commander-in- 
Chief, swept on in the very van of the pur- 
suit. When the American forces were called 
to a sudden halt, in front of the mansion, so 
thick were the clouds of dust, and the smoke 
of battle that rolled over their heads, and so 



dense was the fog that enveloped their line of 
march, that when the young captain gazed 
around him, all objects beyond the vicinity of 
his own men, were wrapt in obscurity. 

The stately form of Washington, surrounded 
by his staff, was visible, however, amid mist 
and gloom, as an aid-de-camp came galloping 
up, and gave information of the lodgement of 
Col. Musgrave with six companies of infantry 
in Chew's mansion. 

" Shall we press onward," exclaimed Wash- 
ington turning to the brave men around him, 
" in pursuit of the main body of the enemy 
who are flying before us, or shall we halt and 
dislodge the party of Col. Musgrave, who have 
thrown themselves into the mansion ?" 

" Halt ! by all means," cried General Knox, 
" it is against every rule of warfare to leave a 
fortress, possessed by an enemy, in the rear." 

"What!" exclaimed Col. Pickering, "shall 
we call this a fort, and lose the very moment 
of success ?" 

"Let us press onward!" cried Wayne, 
who at that moment rode up to the side of 
Washington, his sword dripping with blood. 
" Let us press onward ! Onward and follow 
up the rout of the enemy, while our troops are 
flushed with success ! Onward, and with 
another blow the day is ours !" 

" Onward !" exclaimed Lieutenant Colonel 
Hamilton, " This is the very crisis of the ac- 
tion. While we attack the house, the enemy 
will rally, and we shall see the laurel of victory 
plucked from our brows in the very moment 
of triumph !" 

" Onward, and over them !" cried Captain 
Tracy. " Now the day is our own — in ten 
minutes we may flee from the very field of 
victory with the British pressing on in our 
rear!" 

The cry was echoed by all the junior mem- 
bers of the staff, but their opinion was over- 
ruled by that of the veteran Knox, who, sup- 
ported by other senior officers, advised an im- 
mediate attack upon the house. 

The roar of a steady fire of musquetry pour- 
ing from every window, from every nook and 
cranny of Chew's House, now came rolling 
through the fog, and scattered death and confu- 
sion through the American troops, who rushed 
into the very jaws of the enemy's artillery. 




(its) 



OR THE LEGEND OF TIIE BLACK RANGERS. 



175 



Chew's House became the centre of the 
fiercely contested fight. 

Greene's column to the east were engaged 
hand to hand with the enemy in that quarter ; 
Armstrong was thundering away into the ranks 
of the foe westward of the house, and every 
moment decreased the distance between the va- 
rious wings of the opposing armies and the 
centre of the battle. 

The American artillery was arrayed on the 
opposite side of the Germantown Road, at the 
distance of two hundred yards from the house, 
with the cannon so arrayed, that the balls 
struck the north-west corner of the mansion. 
The thunder of the cannon opened full on the 
house, but the aim of the gunners was rendered 
uncertain by the pressure of the fog. The 
American infantry were about to advance and 
attempt to carry the temporary fortress by 
storm, when it was determined to send a flag of 
truce and summon Col. Musgrave to surren- 
der. 

A young and gallant officer, of Lee's Parti- 
zan Legion, was selected from among the 
throng who offered to bear the flag. 

Assuming the snow-white emblem of peace, 
held sacred by all nations, the brave soldier ap- 
proached the house, and was within twenty 
paces of the hall door, when a blaze issued 
from a window, and the young officer mea- 
sured his grave upon the sod, while the flag of 
truce was stained with the warm blood of his 
heart. 

A yell of horror broke from the American 
army at this ghastly spectacle, and the attack 
upon the house was renewed with a keen de- 
sire on the part of each soldier to avenge the 
young officer, and as each column marched 
up to the mansion, the name of the murdered 
man accompanied each peal of musquetry and 
swelled high above the thunder of the cannon. 

The plan of the attack on Chew's house 
forced nearly one-half of the central body to 
stand by and witness the slaughter of their com- 
rades before their very eyes, without being able 
to raise a hand in their defence. 

Taking advantage of this inactivity, General 
Grey wheeled the front of the left wing of the 
British army from his position east of German- 
town, into the centre of the fight, and sup- 
ported by the fourth brigade under General 
Agnew, opposed a successful and terrible re- 



sistance to the success of the American arms. 
The fire of the British musquetry, enveloping 
the field in one continual sheet of flame, was 
answered by the American fire flashing like 
forked lightning at quick intervals, and from 
the depths of the fog, arose the sound of host 
charging against host, the roar of the cannon, 
the cries, the shrieks, the groans of the 
wounded and dying, mingling with the voices 
of the different commanders, urging their men 
on to their various posts in the scene of con 
flict, but amid all the wild uproar of the battle, 
the deep murmured shouts of the Black 
Rangers broke upon the air, and their sable 
uniform gleamed through the white wreaths of 
smoke, as they thundered along the field in the 
thickest of the fight, accompanying the deadly 
fire with the war cry, " This for Dennis Mc- 
Dermott !" and each mortal stroke of the short, 
straight sword, with the shout — " This for the 
trumpeter boy !" 

Like a dark thunder cloud, emitting fire and 
flame from every point, the Rangers swept 
through the foe in one firm phalanx, making a 
lane of dead wherever they passed, and leaving 
the wounded and the dying scattered in heaps 
in their rear. 

The Americans fought every man of them, 
as though the issue of the fight depended upon 
his separate hand and blow ; they fought 
gallantly ; they fought undismayed by the 
heaps of dead which piled each step of ground 
on which they trod ; but they fought against 
hope. The thick and gloomy mist still hung 
over the field like a shroud for their dead, and 
with its evil omen blasted every prospect of 
success. 

The fog threw the Americans on the left into 
inextricable confusion, and they turned their 
arms against each other. Many a brave Con- 
tinental soldier, leveled his musket, through the 
mist, at what' he supposed a foe, and found 
himself the murderer of a friend. 

The brave Col. Matthews, of Green's for 
midable column, passed to the east of Chew's 
house, and drove the British before him with 
the force of a tornado ; on every side they 
fled before the terror of his arms; and his 
regiment was soon swelled by the addition of 
three hundred prisoners. Returning to the 
main* body in the heat and glow of triumph, 
he fell in with a body of friends — as he 



176 



HERBERT TRACT, 



thought — and found himself a prisoner in the 
heart of the British army. 

Herbert Tracy and his Rangers came 
galloping up to the side of Washington in the 
thickest of the fight, prepared for any effort 
that might retrieve the fatal mistake of the 
halt at Chew's house. 

Never had Herbert seen the Commander-in- 
Chief moved by such deep and powerful 
emotion as stirred through every fibre of his 
commanding frame when, moment after mo- 
ment, he received the reports of disaster and 
partial defeat, from his aids-de-camp, w T ho were 
hastening, some from Armstrong's brigades^ 
some from the commands of Generals 
Smallwood and Forman, others from the 
column of Greene, and all bearing testimony 
of the fatal effects of the want of co-operation 
and consolidation caused by the halt at Chew's 
house. 

Washington glanced around upon the scene 
of confusion and death. 

His face, usually so calm and mild in its 
aspect, was moved in every lineament by an 
expression stern as it was strange to those 
features so full of manly wisdom and dignity. 
His eye flashed, and his eye gathered a frown, 
such as had never before marked his counte- 
nance; his lips were compressed, and his tall 
figure, raised to its full height as wi;h the en- 
ergy of defiance and despair, an utter reckless- 
ness of self preservation appeared to possess 
him in that moment of agony, when he saw 
defeat hovering over the American arms. 

" Follow me, who lists," he exclaimed' 
putting spurs to his steed — " We may even 
yet discover some vulnerable point around the 
fatal house." 

He rode directly in to the fire of the enemy, 
toward the northern wall of Chew's mansion, 
and in his train, fired by a generous emulation 
to share the danger of the noble man, rode the 
gallant Hamilton, the brave Pickering, and the 
daring Lee, side by side with Herbert Tracy, 
who surrendered his men, for the time, to the 
command of Harry Heft, and rushed on with 
Washington and his staff into the very jaws of 
the British cannon. 

Ere they were aware, the party found them- 
selves riding within twenty paces of the north- 
ern wall of the mansion, with a deadly and 
incessant fire of musquetry pouring from the | 



upper window, and the bullets from the oppos- 
ing armies sweeping by their heads like hail, 
wh»le the sod at their horses' feet was furrowed 
by cannon balls. 

The danger was imminent, and nothing but 
interposition of a Higher Power could have 
saved the life of Washington in that dread 
moment. 

The officers of his staff with one voice be- 
sought him to return, but unheeding their ex- 
clamations, Washington rode directly along 
the northern wall of the mansion, and noted 
that the shutters of the lower window were 
closed, and that it was barricaded half way 
up by heaps of loose timber and brushwood, 
while the muzzles of the British guns poured 
an incessant shower of balls through loop- 
holes cut into the shutters. 

Having noted these facts,* the Commander- 
in-Chief turned his horse to the American 
lines, and, followed by his gallant band, rode 
forward, exposed to the fire of the contending 
armies, when, mistaking their way in the fog, 
they presently found themselves entangled 
amid the sheds and enclosures of the cattle- 
pen, fity paces from the mansion, with bullets 
peeling splinters from the timbers every in- 
stant, and cannon balls scattering dust and sand 
into their faces as they struck the earth on 
every side. 

" Save yourselves, gentlemen !" shouted 
Washington, and every member of the staff 
leaped his horse over the enclosure of boards, 
some three feet in height, and galloped north- 
ward toward the American lines, expecting 
Washington and Herbert Tracy to follow their 
example. 

" Leap, Captain Tracy, leap your horse and 
save yourself!" shouted Washington, as a bul- 
let lodged in the pommell of his saddle. 

" Not till you are safe !" replied Tracy, 
facing the storm of battle with as much calm- 
ness and self-possession as though he were 
but breasting the career of a summer showei. 

u I cannot endanger the limbs of this noble 
horse by leaping yon fence," exclaimed Wash- 
ington. " He has borne me safe in too many 
a hard fought fight to think of it. Captain 
Tracy save yourself as best you may — I will 

* The following incident is given on the authority 
of Col. Pickering, who was in the staff of Washington 
on the day of the battle. 



OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 



take the path in front of the house were the 
fog is raised by the enemy's fire!" 

And ere Tracy could reply, Washington 
put spurs to his steed, which sprang through 
the gateway of the cattle-pen toward Chew's 
mansion, and leaping over the intervening 
ground, with the speed of an arrow, bore the 
Commander-in-Chief toward the house. 

Herbert leaned to one side of his steed, and 
held his breath. 

Another moment, and Washington would be 
in the midst of the fire, pouring from the win- 
dows in front of the mansion. Another mo- 
ment and his form would fall to the earth rid- 
dled by an hundred bullets ! 

" He shall not fall alone by the Heaven 
above us!" shouted the young Ranger, giving 
his steed the rein, and galloping across the 
lawn toward the house — " There ! there ! 
He is in front of the house — he is down ! no ! 
He passes! He passes as I live — safe — safe 
and unscathed! Huzza! Away Night-hawks !" 

As Herbert followed in the footsteps of 
Washington — swept through the blaze of 
musquetry in front of the mansion — and 
taking a sudden circuit, disappeared in the fog 
toward the Germantown Road — as he gave 
his steed the rein, and rode over the bodies of 
the dying and the dead, which littered every 
foot of earth — the shrill and piercing sound of 
a woman's voice rising in an agony of fear 
broke upon the air. That sound came from a 
circular window in the northern wing of the 
mansion, and the face of Marian Waltham — 
her eyes dimmed with tears, and her lip quiv- 
ering with terror — was thrust out into the 
light, while with clasped hands and heaving 
bosom, she sent up a prayer to Heaven for the 
safety of h *r lover. 

"Oh! Heaven he is lost!" she exclaimed, 
as Herbert disappeared in front of the house, 
"he falls — he falls from his horse — they 
have killed him — murderers thai they are! 
Nay, nay," she continued, as Herbert re-ap- 
peared on his way to the main road over the 
lawn — " He is saved ! Heaven be thanked ! 
He is saved ! " 

" Here's a purty how d'ye do in Mr. 
Chew's house," exclaimed a familiar voice, and 
Miss Betty Fisher entered the small and dimly 
lighted apartment with large drops of perspira- 



tion pouring down her round fat cheeks — her 
apron usually so neat and prim all torn into tat- 
ters — and her cap, soiled with soot and dust, 
suspended by a single thread to her hair. 
" Here's a purty how d'ye do, in Mr. Chew's 
house ! I raley wish some folks 'ud stay at 
hum, and take care of their own duds. Oh, 
lud, such a fright as I've had !" 

Miss Waltham used all her efforts to calm 
the agitated state of Miss Betty Fisher's mind, 
but in vain. 

" Jist to think of it ! I jist run down stairs 
to take a look a'ter the furnitur', and I'd got to 
the first landing, when what should I see — oh, 
goodness grashus '.there was Sergeant Thomp- 
son, sich a nice portly man, a-laying at the 
foot o' the stairs, all his elegant ruffles kivered 
with blood, and all the furniture cracked to 
pieces, the mahogany tables split into bits, the 
carpets torn up — oh, lud, look there — look 
out 'o the window, Miss Waltham — there's 
the ribbles a-comin' to fire the house ! Oh ! 
now we 11 be burnt up, and Mr. Chew's house 
will be turned into a bake oven." 

Marian looked from the window, and beheld 
twelve forms in dark attire emerging from the 
cover of the fog and running toward the house 
at a quick pace. At a second glance she recog- 
nized in the foremost figure the person of Her- 
bert Tracy, brandishing his rifle, and leading 
his men in the very blaze of the British mus- 
quetry. 

The maiden took not another glance at the 
scene, but seized by a wild impulse of fear — 
with the idea of her lover's safety uppermost 
in her mind — she rushed from the apartment, 
and scarce knowing whither she went, passed 
down the stair ay, entered an open door, and 
in a moment stood by the side of Major 
Tracy, who, begrimed with dust and soot, was 
directing the fire of the soldiers from the win- 
dows of the northern parlor on the ground 
floor, toward which Herbert, unconscious of 
the vicinity of his father or his betrothed, was 
fearlessly approaching. 

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH. 

THE MEETING BETWEEN FATHER AND SON. 

" A band of twelve determined men might 
approach the northern window and fire the 
house," exclaimed Washington, the moment he 



178 



HERBERT TRACT, 



was rejoined bv the officers of his staff within 
the American lines. " It is a work of immi- 
nent danger, however, and every man of the 
band will, in all human probability, fall a corse 
beneath the walls, although the attempt to 
fire the brushwood and timber by the northern 
window may meet with success. I despair of 
inducing any twelve in the army to make the 
attempt — what say you, gentlemen?" 

" I will be one of the twelve !" cried Her- 
bert Tracy throwing himself from his steed. 

"I'll be another!" shouted Harry Heft, im- 
itating his example. 

"And I another!" echoed Sergeant Brown, 
placing himself beside the captain and the lieu- 
tenant. 

" And I another ! and I another !" the cry 
went round, until' every man of the Rangers 
had thrown himself from his horse and swelled 
the line of the self-sacrificing band. 

" Here are nineteen men, Captain Tracy," 
exclaimed Washington, and a gleam of plea- 
sure brightened in his eye as he gazed upon the 
tall and muscular forms of the Rangers. 

" The others," replied Herbert, " have laid 
their bones on the battle-field." 

" Yes, yes, captain, but twelve men are suf- 
ficent, and here are nineteen." 

" General ! Have the kindness to divide 
those who are to remain from the others." 

" Where all are so brave," replied Washing- 
ion, " the task is no easy one. My friends," 
he continued, " you who form the left of this 
brave line be pleased to step aside." 

The seven Rangers stepped aside, their 
countenances stamped with evident chagrin. 

" Now Captain Tracy, I leave the matter to 
your discretion. God be with you !" 

With this exclamation Washington rode 
with his staff to another part of the field, and 
Captain Tracy made his arrangements for the 
performance of the desperate task, upon which 
the success or defeat of the American arms 
might turn. 

In a few minutes every man of the twelve 
stood ready to start. 

Six of the number carried torches and com- 
bustible materials in their hands, while the 
other six — the captain and lieutenant included 
— grasped their rifles, loaded in both barrels, 
with a double charge, and prepared in every 
respect for immediate action. 



" Rangers," exclaimed Tracy, " when we 
advance from the cover of the fog, those who 
have rifles will rush forward, and fire in the 
very faces of the soldiers who guard the ex- 
treme north window in the front of the mansion. 
Those Rangers who bear the torches will then 
advance — fire the heap of brushwood and tim- 
ber under the lower window in the northern 
wall — and while they are thus engaged, the 
rifles will pour a second discharge into the 
window, and then the entire body will retreat. 
Forward !" 

Herbert Tracy led the way over the lawn, 
strewed with dead and wounded, toward the 
mansion. 

Their path was enveloped in the clouds of 
battle, and the rain of bullets whistled by their 
ears or tore up the earth at every footstep. 

It was a dread moment, and every man of 
the band sent up a prayer to that God before 
whom he presently expected to appear, and 
then every heart beat firmly and regularly, 
and every hand was nerved for the approaching 
scene of death. 

" By the Continental Congress !' shouted 
Harry, when they had gained thejr way within 
fifty yards of the mansion, " Jist look there ! 
If there aint the old Quaker, Joab Smiley, and 
the darkey, 4 Charles De Fust,' right in the 
centre of the scrimmage ! There's a vision, 
Rangers ! Heaven help my eyes, but I never 
expected to see such a sight !" 

The Rangers looked across the lawn, and 
beheld at the distance of twenty paces, the 
Quaker, kneeling beside a wounded man, who 
was placed against a tree, while the negro, 
stood holding a flask at his shoulder. 

The battle was raging around him — men 
were measuring their graves within arm's 
reach of the spot where he knelt, troopers 
were sweeping past on their way to join the 
contest, yet still did that plain, unfearing Qua- 
ker tender his kind offices to the wounded 
man, bathe his brow with water, and moisten 
his parched tongue. 

The unsophisticated negro who stood at his 
shoulder, half scared to death, by the terrors 
of the scene, appeared urging him onward to 
Chew's house, where his mistress was in dan 
ger, whom with all his fears he was deter- 
mined to save. 

"The noble Quaker is in danger," ex- 



OR THE LEGEND OP THE BLACK RANGERS. 



119 



claimed Herbert as he glanced at the scene — 
" But we have no time now to interpose in his 
behalf! We must onward !" 

Every breath was hushed, as the Rangers 
began to discern the outline of Chew's Man- 
sion, looming through the gloom and fog. 

" What mean those torches glimmering 
through the mist!" exclaimed Major Tracy, as 
standing amid a body of ten soldiers, placed in 
the extreme north window of the front of the 
house, he discovered the approach of the Ran- 
gers. " Ha ! As I live, they are rebels, en- 
gaged in the execution of some desperate pur- 
pose. iSow my men, now — yet wait a mo- 
ment — now, now. Let your aim be sure; 
pick every man of them ; now !" 

The word of command rose to his tongue, 
when he felt a hand laid lightly on his arm. 

He turned and beheld the form of Marian 
Waltham ; her blue eyes glaring wildly, her 
lips apart, her cheek pale as death, and her 
golden hair, flowing in disordered masses over 
her neck and shoulders. 

" Mr. Tracy — beware !" exclaimed the mai- 
den, clutching his arm convulsively. " Pause, 
for the sake of Heaven, ere the blood of your 
son is upon your soul." 

Ere the Major could gather the meaning of 
the maiden's words, the voice of the foremost 
Ranger arose without — "Now, Nighthawks, 
now !" and the blaze of six rifles flashed from 
the lawn into the open window. Four British 
soldiers fell heavily to the floor, and with a 
■wild shriek, Marian laid her hand upon her 
heart, her senses swam in wild confusion, and 
she sank at the feet of Major Tracy, insensi- 
ble and motionless. 

" Follow me, every man of you !" shouted 
Major Tracy, leaping from the window out 
upon the lawn, while the smoke of the Ameri- 
can rifles yet hung in heavy folds across the 
casement, and obscured his vision. •* Follow 
me, every man of you !" 

Scarce had the words died on the air, when 
alighting upon the slight embankment in front 
of the mansion, he glanced around and beheld 
through the smoke, a body of the Rangers in 
the act of firing the brushwood, beneath the 
northern window, while the other division 
were moving toward the window, raising thtir 
pieces as they advanced. 



Major Tracy sprang from the embankment: 
another leap, and he stood within arm's length 
of the advancing rebels. 

Raising his sword in the air, he glanced at 
the breast of the foremost Ranger, and pre- 
pared to plunge it in his heart, when a slight 
breath of air, wafted the smoke aside, and 
Major Tracy confronted his son. 

"Oh, God — my father!" 

" My son !" 

He sprang back, with the quick, instantane- 
ous movement of surprise ; his right arm 
dropped to his side, and with his dark, flash- 
ing eyes, starting from their sockets — while 
his eyebrows were woven together, with the 
sudden, nervous expression, that trembled 
along every line of his face — he gazed upon 
the form of Herbert Tracy. He perused 
every lineament of his countenance, as if to 
assure himself that what he beheld was not 
an Apparition, evoked by a supernatural 
power, from the very gloom and carnage of 
the battle-field. 

And there stood the son, the same expression 
of intense surprise gathering over his face — 
his dark eyes flashing with the same deep 
glance — the same frown upon his brow, and 
his right hand grasping his good rifle drooped 
by his side, with the same impulse that 
unnerved his father's arm. 

Oh, what a wild contest was at work in tha. 
father's heart, as he thus stood gazing upon 
the child of all his hopes, now banned and 
cursed, by those lips that should have spoken 
but the words of blessing and the sounds of 
prayer ; how fiercely were tumultuous feelings 
sweeping over his soul ; how bitter was the 
struggle between nature and pride . between 
the long indulged feelings of natural affection 
reviving in all their vigor and the new-risen 
bitterness of worldly ambition, opposing the 
remembrance of every kindly sympathy, with 
the stern thought — he has set my will at 
defiance, let the consequences be upon his own 
head; he has sown in the storm — let him 
reap the harvest of his folly in the whirlwind. 

At last words came to the father's tongue, 
and again the sword was poised in air. 

" Rebel !" he shouted between his clenched 
teeth — " Not thus did I think to meet you, 
upon the battle-field, with the sword of Trea- 
son in your hand — " 



ISO 



HERBERT TRACY, 



"Father!"' — shrieked Herbert, as all the j 
memories of his life came crowding around 
his heart. 

" But, now, that we have met here, on this 
crimsoned sod, foot to foot and hand to hand, I 
tell you,*traitor, that one of us must measure 
out a grave upon this field. You have a 
sword — draw and defend yourself!" 

" Father !" cried Herbert, dropping his rifle 
and spreading forth his hands, " Here is my 
breast ! I make no defence — I offer no resis- 
tance — strike, and fulfil your curse !" 

" Friend Tracy, thee must not harm thy 
child !" exclaimed a voice, familiar to the ears 
of father and son, and the stalwart arm of the 
Quaker was thrust before the hand of Major 
Tracy. " I tell thee, friend Tracy, thee must 
not harm thee own flesh and blood," repeated 
the Quaker, as, wresting the sword from .the 
father's hand, with a grasp that it was vain to 
resist, he very coolly shattered it into fragments 
upon his knee. " Major Tracy, thee is not 
in thee right mind, or surely thee would not 
demean theeself so unwisely. And, young 
man — does thee hear? — mount thee war- 
horse, and get thee away from the field ! 
Does thee not see that the Americans are 
fleeing around thee ? ' Away with thee — away 
with thee ! Thee own men are cut down 
before thee, in the very act of firing yon win- 
dow shutter — Ha ! verily !" 

Herbert, unheeding the scene of tumult and 
blood around him, sank on his knees, and 
clasped his father by the hands. 

The stout Quaker, Joab Smiley, strode aside 
to the window, where Harry Heft and Sergeant 
Brown were struggling amid the dead bodies 
of their comrades, against five of the British 
infantry, who had clubbed their muskets, and 
were raising them over the heads of the sinking 
Rangers, in the act of dealing the death-blow. 

" Hold, friend, thee must not strike thee 
brother!' shouted the strong-armed Quaker, 
throwing himself among the enraged British 
soldiers, and wresting a musket at every 
WO rd — "Thee has no business to strike thee 
brother, friend — what does thee want with 
this mischievous weapon?" he continued, 
forcing a musket from the grasp of one of the 
soldiers — "Nor does thee want this — nor 
thee this — (Harry Heft, get thee away and 
fl v — thee and thee friend.) Ha ! verily ! 



Friend, friend, does thee resist me ? Wilt not 
surrender thee weapon ? Then must I use 
force ! What business has thee a- walking 
about friend Chew's ground, a-cracking people 
on the head in this style? Hey? Friend? 
(Harry Heft, get thee away — thee and thee 
friend.) Nay, friends, ye must not resist — -I 
am stronger than ye — away, Harry, away !" 

With these and similar exclamations, Joab 
scattered the muskets of the British soldiers, 
while Harry Heft and Sergeant Brown were 
enabled to secure two horses out of the num- 
ber of riderless steeds that were galloping 
along the battle-field. 

"I say, Joab — uncle Joab," cried Harry, 
as he leaned from his prancing horse, " if ever 
anybody speaks a word against a Quaker in 

my presence, may I be to if I don't 

lick the lie out of their hide, before they can 
say Jack Robinson ! Hey ! What's that, the 
Sargent gone, too !" continued Harry, as the 
brave veteran Brown fell from his horse, 
wounded by a spent ball. " This has 
been a bloody day for the Rangers ! Uncle — 
uncle Joab, I say ! Lay hold of yon horse 
for the Captain! Hallo, there, Captain — 
don't be kneelin' there to the old gentleman, 
when you should be makin' yourself missing ! 
Captain, the day's against us ; the Rangers are 
all killed, and we must be off." 

Holding the horse, from which Sergeant 
Brown had just fallen, in his grasp, the Quaker 
approached the father and kneeling son. 

" Father, your blessing, your blessing !" 
exclaimed Herbert, as he clasped the hands of 
his parent, who was gazing sternly upon him, 
as the Quaker drew nigh. 

" Herbert, I do not curse — I do not curse 
you ! But bless you, I cannot, my son, while 
your sword is raised in most unrighteous 
treason ! I do not curse, for I cannot heap a 
deeper curse on you, than the stain of loyal 
blood, which crimsons your hands ! I must 
never see you more — never, never !" 

And with these words the stern hearted 
Loyalist turned away. 

His son never looked upon his living form 
again. 

" The day is indeed against us !" cried 
Herbert, turning to Harry Heft — " the Ameri- 
cans fly on every side, and yonder is Wash- 
ington trying to stem the current. Let usi 



OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 



131 



away — yet hold " — he exclaimed, wheeling 
his plunging horse around — "I have naught 
left for which to live — I will die upon this 
field — I will die with my father's curse upon 
my head- " 

" Nay, young man," exclaimed the Quaker, 
" that would be desperate, little better than 
suicide ! Away with thee, away, while flight 
is in thee power !" 

" Fly, Herbert, fly !" cried a voice which 
made the young captain's heart throb with a 
feeling of wild surprise — "Fly, Herbert, for 
my sake, if not for your own — fly !" 

A fair hand was thurst from the small 
circular window in the northern wing of the 
mansion, and Herbert beheld the beaming face 
of his betrothed. One token of recognition 
was exchanged, and dashing his spurs into the 
flanks of his steed, side by side with Harry 
Heft, Herbert joined the retreat of the Ameri- 
can soldiers, who swept in one wild torrent of 
defeat and disorder over the ground, where 
they had conquered at the break of day. 

" Massa Smiley — Massa Smiley," cried 
" Chawls de Fust " issuing from the hall 
door of Chew's house. " My Missa Walt- 
ham am safe — she am, gorra-mighty — lor 
bless us ! Dat am a fac ! Sure's my name's 
Chawls de Fust." 

** Verily, I must see the damsel " — ex- 
claimed the Quaker — " She may be in trouble 
and distress, and I may comfort her. Nay, 
friends, look not so sourly at me" — he con- 
tinued, as he observed the scowling brows of 
the British soldiers, who were rushing by him 
to join in the pursuit. " I did but take away 
your weapons for your good. Verily, I must 
see the damsel." 

And with that word he disappeared in the 
hall door. 

Chew's house was now entirely deserted by 
its late military occupants who all poured from 
its precincts, to join the torrent of pursuit 
which thundered in the rear of the American 
host. Along the Germantown Road, over the 
fields and enclosures between the village and 
Chesnut Hill, fled the scattered bands of the 
American army. In vain did Washington 
endeavor to breast the tide of retreat, in vain 
did Pulaski at the head of his troopers, throw 
himself before the disheartened fugitives, and 
urge them by all that they held dear and sa- 
12 



cred, to face the pursuing foe ! All was in 
vain ! And Greene and Wayne beheld their 
men, who had borne themselves so gallantly, 
ere the bright prospects of the day had been 
blasted at Chew's house, turn their backs to 
the foe, and flee in utter despair from that 
field, where heaven and earth had combined 
to defeat the American arms. 

How the American army retreated to the 
wilds of Perkiomen, how the wounded and 
the dying strewed the way, how the pursuit 
was maintained, and how most of the dis- 
astrous consequences of a retreat were avoided 
by the care and foresight of Washington, are 
all matters of historical relation, and we turn 
again to the blood-stained field of German- 
town. 



CHAPTER FIFTEENTH. 
SUNSET UPON THE BATTLE FIELD. 

The declining sun was again bathing the land- 
scape in its golden beauty. The sloping hill, and 
grassy pasturage, the leafy forest, dyed with 
hues of autumn, and the level plain dotted 
with orchards and varied by cultivation, all 
looked more lovely in the setting sunlight — 
since the raising of the mist had imparted new 
life and freshness to the view — than when the 
uncertain beams of the battle-morn glimmered 
among wreaths of clouds, and threw a dim 
and pallid light along the darkened air, deepened 
to the gloom of twilight by the smoke and dust 
of battle. 

" Will thee mount thee horse, Miss Wal- 
tham ? Dost not see, young lady, that friend 
Tracy is mounted and ready to start ? Nay, 
Betty Fisher do not detain the maiden with 
thee endless gossip, and Charles, man, what 
does thee stand grinning at there, like another 
chessy-cat."* 

With many a w r arm expression of thanks 
and courtesy to Miss Betty Fisher for htr care 
and attendance, Marian took the hand of the 
Quaker, and sprang from the hall steps of 
Chew's mansion, upon her favorite steed, 
which the watchful " Chawls de Fust" had 
brought from the mansion on the Ridge Road, 
to Germantown, since the strife and turmoil 
of the battle morning. 

The fair form of Marian was robed in a 

• Qu 1 Cheshire Cat 



182 



IIERBEKT TRACY, 



green riding habit, which fitted closely and 
gracefully around her bust and shoulders, with 
a ruffle of delicate white encircling the snowy 
neck, while the skirt of the robe fell in 
voluminous folds over the maidenly proportions 
of her figure, and resting upon the saddle of 
her bounding steed, swept in a graceful train 
until it touched the very earth. Her glossy 
hair, with all its golden luxuriance, was con- 
fined by a small riding hood, topped by a 
delicate white plume, and looped in front with 
a brooch of the brightest lustre. 

Marian's cheek was deathly pale, and her 
>eyes were swollen with weeping, for the 
thought of her father's death la}' heavy at her 
jheart, and as she glanced at the tall form of 
Major Tracy, mounted on his steed at her side, 
all the scenes of the day that was well nigh 
•over, and of the preceding night, rose before 
'her vivid fancy like the fresh remembrance of 
the horrors of some terrible dream. 

44 Shall we move forward, friend Tracy ? I 
Slacks but an hour of sunset — Charles, mount 
thee horse ; we must be moving." 

44 It reely makes me quite solemn-like to see 
you all a-going, and scarce a soul in the house 
but myself!" exclaimed Miss Betty Fisher, 
advancing to the side of Marian's horse. 44 0h 
dear, oh, dear, here's been a purty day of it ! 
And after the unmannerly soldiers have filled 
Mr. Chew's house with dead, and bYoke the 
furnitur and scattered all the chiney all over 
the house — Oh ! goodness me ! They then 
must clear out Colone 1 Musgrave, Lieutenant 
Wellwood and all, leavin' me to look to their 
miserable place ! Oh, lud, Miss Waltham, I 
shall never get over this fright for a twelve- 
month. Don't look so sad — that's a dear" 
— continued the loquacious house-keeper. "It's 
a comfort to you to think, that the ribble 
officer didn't run away with you quite "i 

44 Verily, Miss Betty Fisher, thee will keep' 
us here, listening to this prattle, until to-mor- 
row morn. Let us push on, friend Tracy." 

"Good bye, Miss Waltham!" screamed 
Betty as the party rode over the lawn — 44 Good 
bye, and rimimber me to all inquirin' friends." 

44 Gorra-mighty — lor bless me !" chuck- 
led the negro — 44 Dat ar' woman got a tongue 
like de hopper of a flour mill ! Clack — 
chick — and no stoppin' when it gets agwain. 
Dal am a fac' 1 



As Marian rode along the lawn, toward the 
Germantown Road, on her way homeward, 
she could not help noting the awful quietness 
which had gathered over the battle field, in 
place of the noise and tumult of the morn. 

The grounds, as well as the mansion, were 
deserted by the British soldiers. The dead 
were strewn over the surface of ine lawn in 
ghastly heaps. The grass was trodden down, 
and wet with blood, while every indentation v»r 
hollow of the earth, was filled with a pool of 
the crimson current, and here and there were 
crevices dug in the ground, by the rolling of 
the cannon wheels, now affording temporary 
channels for the reception of the cloited masses 
of human gore which made the lawn a marsh 
of carnage. 

Pieces of broken musquets, fragments of 
bayonets, remnants of shattered swords littered 
the ground, mingled with bullets and cannon 
balls, — all the ten thousand wrecks of war 
and battle-strife were strewn along, amid the 
piles of dead bodies. 

The beams of the setting sun gilded the pale 
faces of the dead, with a momentary light that 
seemed like a bitter mockery of the ruddy ^low 
of life, and the warm flush of health. 

Marian beheld death in every shape and po- 
sition. 

Here an American soldier had fallen at the 
foot of a tree, and died with his back propped 
against the trunk, while his head fell to one 
side, and his mouth opened with a ghastly 
grin. One hand clutched the shattered mus- 
quet-stock, and the other lay stiffened on the 
wound near his breast. Close by him, a Brit- 
ish soldier seemed to have been swept down 
in the very moment of the charge. His back 
was turned to the sky, one knee was bent as if 
he had met the death wound when running, 
and his face was buried in the ground, while 
his arms were outstretched, and his stiffened 
fingers were thrust into the upturned earth, as 
though he had grasped the sod, in the convul- 
sive throes of mortal agony. 

Farther on lay a heap of dead — American 
and Briton, Scot and German, interlocked in 
one ghastly pile of mangled bodies — some 
with their faces upturned to the sunlight, some 
with their hands upraised, as if to ward off 
the descending blow, others with every limb 
contorted by the spasm that attends a sudden 



OK THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK R.VNGSUS. 



18 J 



and a painful death, while some there were 
who lay extended upon the earth as calmly 
and quietly as though they had but laid them- 
selves down to take a pleasant sleep. 

Here lay a youth clad in the rustic dress of 
an American farmer's boy. He lay on his 
side, with his tangled brown hair thrown over 
his forehead, his sunburnt cheek crimsoned 
with spots of blood, and his plain and uncouth 
o-armpnts drilled with bullet holes, and torn by 
sword thrusts. His old-fashioned fowling- 
piece, the companion of many a wild ramble 
amid the solitudes of the forest, lay near his 
side, and his arm was stretched out as though 
he grasped it in his death struggle, but the 
stiffened fingers could but touch the shattered 
stock without enclosing it in their dying 
embrace. 

And thus along the whole field, in each 
nook, each grassy hollow, along the surface 
of each mossy level, were scattered those who 
had fallen in the morning's struggle, resting in 
all the ghastliness of death, upon the sod 
which had bounded beneath their tread at the 
hour of sunrise. Had aught been wanting to 
complete the picture, it was supplied by the 
presence of various mercenary wretches, who, 
hovering upon the outskirts of tne field, 
stripped and plundered the dead, and scared 
away a flock of ravens, who had perched upon 
their victims, in anticipation of a plentiful 
banquet. 

" God of mercy !" exclaimed the Quaker, 
as his eye drunk in the horrors of the battle- 
field, " if ever the fancy might imagine that 
spirits of the dark world had built a loathsome 
mockery of every high and heavenly sympathy 
that dwells in the bosom of man, surely that 
mocking spectacle is here, for here man — out- 
raging all feelings of brotherhood, all feelings 
of affection, all that is good or holy in his 
nature — has laid his fellow man down upon 
the earth in all the shapes of death, and every 
mangled limb and torn carcase, seems to bear 
witness that the Lord God dvvelleth not in 
man, but rather that he is the temple of the 
Evil One!" 

As he spoke, the party reached the main 
road, and Major Tracy spurred on his steed 
some hundred yards ahead of his companions, 
and riding in full gallop, he seemed to woo 
the current of freshening air, as it swept over 



his hot brOvv and burning cheek, without for 
an instant allaying the fever of his mind. 

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH. 

THE BALL FROM THE GRAVE-YARD. 

Major Tracy, riding along in front of the 
party, soon reached a point where a quiet 
grave-yard looks out upon the village street. 

It was then, as it is now, somewhat elevated 
above the level of the main street, and now — 
as on that battle eve — a wall of dark grey 
stone separates it from the highway, half 
shielding its green mounds of earth, and its 
long lines of time-eaten tombstones, from the 
gaze of the passer-by. He was riding thus 
leisurely along, with his head drooped low, as 
if in thought, his eyes downcast, and his hands 
on his chest, while the loosened rein was 
thrown carelessly upon his horse's neck ; his 
entire manner betrayed the absence of all his 
musings from the real world around him ; he 
was riding thus leisi rely along, and had well 
nigh gained the grave-yard gate — which 
opened into the pathway from the centre of 
the wall — when a loud and startling report 
broke upon the still air ; the body of the stern 
Loyalist swayed in the saddle for an instant, 
then pitched headlong to the ground. 

At the same instant a line of light blue 
smoke was observed floating along the grave- 
yard wall. 

Startled by the report, the attention of the 
Quaker was instantly drawn to the quarter 
from whence it proceeded. At the same instant 
that he heard the quick and jarring sound, he 
beheld the body of Major Tracy fall heavily 
to the earth, and the wreaths of pale blue 
smoke curling in the air above the grave-yard 
wall. 

Unheeding the shriek that arose from the 
lips of Marian at the sight, or the yell of horror 
uttered by the negro, Joab Smiley gave the 
rein to his horse, and reached the spot where 
the Major fell, at the very moment when he 
measured his length upon the ground. 

Joab sprang from his horse, and in an instant 
the head of Major Tracy rested upon his 
knee. It needed not a second glance to tell 
the Quaker that he held a lifeless corse in his 
arms. The body rested in his embrace with 
the dull leaden weight of death ; the face was 



184 



IIEIiBfiIRT TRACY, 



pale as ashes, ihs dark eyes bursting from their 
sockets, glared upon the blue heavens with a 
cold glassy stare ; and the nerves of the face, 
along the cheek, and around the mouth, were 
starting from the skin, with the electric agony 
of sudden death. 

The silver star, which he wore upon his 
left breast, was crimsoned by the blood flowing 
from the wound near his heart. 

Laying the body hurriedly upon the earth, 
the Quaker sprang over the wall of the grave- 
yard, and as he alighted upon the rising mound 
of a new made grave, he beheld the figure of a 
man, clad in rustic attire, disappearing among 
the shrubbery which overlooked the rear wall 
of the grave-yard, and, as he vanished, Joab 
noted that he held a rifle in his hand. He 
pursued the retiring figure, but in vain ; he had 
fled beyond all hope of capture, and the Qua- 
ker returned sadly to the highway, where a 
group of villagers had gathered around the 
corse, and were looking carelessly on, while 
Marian held the head of the dead man in her 
arms. The faithful negro servant unfastened 
his cravat, loosened his dress, threw water in 
his face, and used every means that his untaught 
fidelity suggested to restore his master to life. 

" Why seek ye not the murderer?" shouted 
the Quaker, throwing himself into the midst 
of the throng of villagers. " Do ye behold a 
man cut down in the very glow of life before 
your eyes, and yet stir not a hand to secure 
his slayer ?" 

" Well, I minds my own business," replied 
an uncouth looking villager, " I don't know 
but what I might tell who sent that bullet, but 
d've see, friend Broadbrim, this man (pointing 
to Major Tracy) is — is a — toryl D'ye mark 
me?" 

"Are you men?" cried Marian, glancing 
around the crowd, while her eyes swam in 
tears. " Are you men, and have you one 
feeling of mercy, or pity, or justice, or right, 
and can ye stand and see a fellow being bleed- 
ing to death before your eyes, and extend not 
a hand to his assistance ? Shame on ye !" 

"He was a tory !" cried a second villager. 
" Go look at Chew's house, and ask for 

pity r 

** Look at the pits filled with true Ameri- 
cans !" exclaimed a third. " Go look at the 



pits dug in every field for a mile round, and 
then ask mercy for a tory !" 

" Why, my friends," cried the Quaker, as 
his dark grey eye flashed with anger and 
honest indignation, " did ye mingle in the 
battle ? Are ye so fond of the right cause, 
and yet struck not a blow in its behalf ? Verily, 
my friends, it is my plain opinion that ye are a 
pack of pitiful dogs, whose bark is ever more 
terrible than their bite ! As the maiden saith, 
so say T — shame on ye, shame !" 

»• You'd better not put any of your hard 
names on me," cried the ill looking villager 
advancing, " for all you are a Quaker, I might 
chance to strike you." 

" Thee might friend, might thee ?" cried the 
Quaker, as he approached the villager ; " verily, 
friend, thee is of no use here ; but, on the 
contrary, thee grows troublesome. A little 
musing among the tombs may do thee good ?" 

As the Quaker spoke, he extended his 
sinewy arms, and seizing the villager by the 
shoulder, very quietly bore him along to the 
grave-yard wall, and then, with as much ease 
as may be imagined, sent him plunging over 
among the tombs with an impetus that tended 
materially to make this ardent Hater-of-Tories 
pray earnestly »« that he might alight in a soft 
place." 

With a bland smile on his face, and without 
any signs of passion or emotion, the Quaker 
returned to the group, who first eyed his tall, 
robust form, and his Herculean proportions 
with a significant scrutiny, and then were con- 
tent to vent their spleen in general curses, upon 
the whole race of Tories, Loyalists, and so 
forth. 

The sound of approaching hoofs echoed 
along the village street, and the attention of the 
group was attracted toward two horsemen, who 
came galloping from the direction of Chew's 
House. 

" They are Continentals !" cried a villager, 
" Continental officers, bearin' a flag of truce to 
the British army ! I wonder what mought 
their names be ?" 

" I say, captain," cried one of the horse- 
men to the other, " in the name o' th' Conti- 
nental Congress, what does this crowd mean 
in front o' yonder grave-yard ?" 

" Let us push forward and see," was the-re 



On TOE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 



183 



ply, and in a moment, the foremost horseman 
pushed through the throng and beheld the dead 
man. 

" Herbert Tracy !" exclaimed the Quaker 
wi»h a start of surprise, but the words died on 
his tongue, for the son was gazing steadfastly 
and fixedly in the face of his father, and his 
chest heaved, and his frame shook with emo- 
tion, but no tear dimmed his eye. His grief 
was too deep for tears, his agitation too fearful 
for utterance. 

And as the sun went down on that 4th day 
of October, in the year of Grace 1777, there 
they clustered around the body of the dead 
man, as it lay in the highway of Germantown, 
in front of the grave yard from which the 
assassin winged his bullet. 

There was Marian Waltham, bending on 
one knee, and supporting the corse in her 
arms : the tears were flooding her cheeks and 
sobs of unfeigned sorrow were heaving her 
bosom. There was the Quaker with his plain 
honest visage and his manly form ; there wss 
Harry Heft, the bluff soldier, with his face 
expressive of mingled curiosity and astonish- 
ment ; there was honest Charles, the negro, 
weeping for his master ; around were grouped 
the careless idlers of the village, and over the 
corse, in the centre of the throng, was the form 
of Herbert Tracy ; his arms were folded, his 
eves were downcast, his dark hair fell wildly 
back from his uncovered brow, and over each 
lineament of his face came the expression of 
unutterable wo that gnawed at his heart-strings 
for years, and dwelt in his soul until his dying 
day. 

One thought was gathering over his soul, 
absorbing every other feeling, and crushing 
every sentiment of natural grief 

«* He is dead — the father that I loved ! 
And his curse is on me !" 

CHAPTER LAST. 

THE RE-UNION. THE EXILE. THE MISERY. 

Autumn passed — winter, with its storms, 
was over, and spring again bloomed amid the 
groves and glades of the Wissahikon. 

The day was serene, the air balmy, and the 
earth glad with the verdure of the trees, the 
music of the free streams, and the perfume of 
wild flowers. 



Two young maidens of different stations in 
life, as might be seen by their attire, were 
seated upon the porch of the mansion upon 
the heights of the Wissahikon. As they 
gazed abroad upon the face of nature, and 
drank in the wild delight of sky and forest 
and stream, while the fragrant air was play- 
ing amid the tendrils of the wild vine that 
clomb along the pillars of the porch, they for- 
got that the house by which they were seated 
was desolate, that its occupants were scattered 
abroad, and the silence of its halls but rarely 
disturbed by the sounds of human speech. 

The light haired maiden glanced at her 
mourning robe, and she thought of those who 
slept in the church-yard ; the sparkle of the 
ring on her ringer met her eye, and then her 
mind was faraway amid the scenes of battle, 
and her fancy wandered with him who battled 
in the ranks of war, and who fought against 
the gloom that was upon his soul. 

The dark haired maiden glanced at the blue 
sky, at the forest sweeping in all its verdure 
along the height of the opposite hill ; she lis- 
tened to the lulling music of the rippling stream, 
and then her thoughts were with the hardy 
soldier, whose frank bearing, and rustic manli- 
ness, had won the admiration and affection of 
her young heart. She thought of many a ram- 
ble under that sky, amid those shades, and be- 
side the lulling murmur of that quiet Wissa- 
hikon. 

At a short distance from the porch, a tall 
and robust farmer was engaged in cleaning the 
walks of the flower-garden, from the mass of 
weeds and wild grass accumulated by time and 
neglect. His plain Quaker coat, was resting 
on the pailing of the garden fence, and with 
his muscular arms unbared, the farmer plied 
the spade with every mark of alacrity and 
vigor. Ever and anon he would pause in his 
employment, and turning his honest visage to ' 
the heavens, he would gaze at the deep azure 
above, then at the forest around, and finally his 
glance would rest upon the forms of the mai- 
dens seated upon the porch, whom he regard- 'd 
with a look of quiet complacency, that told of 
a mind sobered by experience, taking delight in 
the calm innocence, theguileress converse, and 
the ardent hopes of youth 

A little further on, a shining faced negro, 
with his arms black as ebony, stripped to the 



1-36 ITE'VSEKT 

elbow, was engaged in trailing a wild vine 
along Rn arbor, while his shrill clear whistle 
broke merrily upon the air, interspersed with 
snatches of ditlies of every kind and order of 
poetical merit, which he usually wound up 
with the loud " Haw-a-whah !" peculiar to the 
Ethiopean race. 

" This spot is more pleasant to thee, Miss 
Marian," exclaimed the blacli haired maiden, 
turning to her fair companion. "This spot is 
more pleasant to thee, Miss Marian, than the 
loneliness of the mansion on the Ridge Road • — 
is it' not Miss Waltham ?" 

" A thousand feelings, dear Marjorie, com- 
bine to make this scene one of the saddest as 
well as the loveliest I ever looked upon. I can- 
not turn my eye to a flower, a blade of grass, 
a shrub or a tree, without the vivid revival of 
some memory of the past. Old faces, and 
well remembered forms, swim in the air around 
me — voices that once awoke the echoes of 
these walls, again sound in my ears — friends 
dearly and fondly beloved, are once more 
around me — and all the wo, the sorrow and 
care of the world are forgotten " — — 

"Has thee heard of Captain Tracy lately, 
Miss Marian ?" 

44 Yes, Marjorie. But his letters are sad and 
gloomy, and he seems to be warring a bitter 
contest with the dark remembrance of the 
past. He has not mingled with the scenes of 
battle since the affray of Chew's House, and 
the terrible event that so fearfully wound up a 
day of bloodshed and horror." 

" 'Twas a sad thing, the death of Major 
Tracy. How strange ! That the assassin should 
never be discovered !" 

" A fearful mystery is around the whole af- 
fair, Marjorie. Who it was that, fired the 
shot, whether the hand of the murderer was 
raised in revenge of a private wrong, or from 
mere partizan enmity, has never come to light. 
These are times of strife and turmoil — and all 
the sympathies that bind men together in times 
of peace, so!>med sundered and broken apart." 

44 But tell me, Miss Marian, did thy letters 
speak of — of — Lieutenant Heft ? Is he still 
with Captuin Tracy? ' 

44 The Captain is still by the side of the 
Commander-in-Chief, though he mingles not 
in the strife of battle. His letters speak of 
Harry Heft in the kindest terms. His qual- 



• Til ACT, 

ities of a free, open frankness, and a speech, 
perhaps somewhat too blunt and rugged, have 
proved beneficent to Herbert, and in the com- 
pany of his honest friend, he finds a frequent 
relief from the sorrow that weighs upon his 
soul." 

A gleam of pleasure brightened in Marjorie's 
black eye, and a warm glow flushed over her 
cheek. She was about to reply, when a loud 
shout broke from the negro " Chawls the 
Fust," and he was seen dancing about the 
lawn in every variety of grotesque attitudes and 
fantastic postures, which his lively imagination 
suggested. 

" Why friend, thee is surely demented," ex- 
claimed the astonished Quaker. 

" Massa Smiley, Massa Smilie, d'ye hear 
dat ar' laugh ? A regular haw-haw ! Dat am 
Harry Heft's laugh — sure's my name's 
Charles de Fust ! Massa's comin' home ! 
Lor bless us — gorra-a-mighty ! Dat am a 
fac." 

Marian and Marjorie started up from their 
seats ; the Quaker leaped over the garden 
fence, on to the lawn, and the whole party lis- 
tened eagerly to the sounds of horses' hoofs, 
which came echoing through the woods from 
the road which wound a.nong the rocks of the 
precipice. 

In a few moments all doubt was at an end ; 
two horsemen emerged from the woods and 
rode over the lawn, at the top of their horses' 
speed. 

In an instant Marian was clasped in the 
arms of her lover, while Harry Heft, unheeding 
the presence of the staid Quaker, was so very 
rude as to inflict sundry kisses upon the pout- 
ing lips of the black eyed Quakeress, and en- 
fold her pretty figure in a succession of loving 
embraces. 

44 Marian, Marian, my own beautiful 
Marian" — exclaimed Herbert, as he gazed 
upon the face of his betrothed, while her kind- 
ling eyes returned his ardent gaze. 44 Marian, 
we shall never part more. I have returned 
again to the scenes of our earliest love, to 
scenes hallowed by memory, though darkened 
by many a bitter sorrow ; I will gaze once 
more upon the green woods and quiet shades 
of the Wissahikon and then leave these hills 
and vales for ever. Marian, will you share 
the fate of a wanderer and an exile ?" 



OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 



1ST 



It needed not the whispered words that came 
from the maiden's lip. to tell Herbert that he 
was still beloved. The maiden's beaming eye 
and blushing cheek, spoke the thoughts that 
were fluttering around her heart. 

44 Marian," whispered Herbert, 44 our love 
has been cursed in scenes of joy, it has grown 
and flourished amid scenes of trial and wo, 
and now, alone as we are in the wide and 
callous world, we will be all in all in each 
other — we will forget in foreign lands that 
ever our path was shadowed by a single 
cloud." 

44 Why Marjorie, you minx" — interrupted 
Harry Heft — 44 how pretty you've grown! 
How your dark eyes twinkle — how your 
rosy lips open with sich a han'some pout, as 
though you were good lookin' and you knew 
it. No, no, Marjorie — there's no use o* 
poutin' your lips and shakin' your head. We'll 
be married — that's certain ! See how uncle 
is shakin' his sides with quiet joy there ! 
We'll be married for all 1 ain't a Quaker, and 
I'll away to the wars, and fight many a hard 
blow for my country yet, though the Rangers, 
and Dennis and all — God help me! — are 
dead and gone. And I'll come back a live 
man, I promise you, Marjorie, and we'll be 
married right off for certain. We will, by the 
Continental Congress !" 

It wa the last time Herbert and Marian 
should gaze upon the wilds of the Wissahikon. 
The blue sky was above, the forests were 
around, the old mansion with its closed doors 
and fastened shutters, was sleeping in the sun- 
light. 

The arms of Herbert were entwined around 
Marian's waist ; her face upturned to his 
countenance, seared by the lines of premature 
sorrow, glowed with the happiness of the hour, 
and her bosom heaved and her eyes swam in 
tears of joy. 

A little apart stock the manly Harry Heft 
beside the blushing Marjorie ; in the back 
ground was the negro, dancing for gladness at 
the joy of others; and in the centre of the 
group stood the Quaker, Joab Smiley, his 
honest visage brightening with unfeigned 
pleasure as he regarded the love and happiness 
beaming from the faces of all around him. 

It was a scene of quiet joy, and one that 



dwelt in the remembrance of those who shared 
the felicity of the moment through xhe long 
lapse of future years. 



Herbert, entrusted with a mission of the ut- 
most importance to his country, departed with 
his blooming bride to the gay scenes of th? 
French metropolis, where he remained until 
after the American war was terminated by the 
peace of Versailles. 

Lieutenant Wellwood Tracv, promoted to a 
Colonelcy, left America for England, and then 
sailed for India, where his love of pleasure and 
dissipation soon supplied him with that nar- 
rowest and quietest of all habitations — a grave. 

Harry Heft and the black eyed Quakeress 
passed the quiet years of their rustic felicity 
amid the shades of the Wissahikon, and long 
after the fresh-grown turf, extending greenly 
along the lawn of Chew's mansion, had con- 
cealed all marks of blood and carnage, the 
blunt soldier and his pretty wife still lived to 
tell the store of the 4th of October, 1 777 — 
Harry to describe the scenes of the battle, the 
charge, the havoc and the retreat, and Marjo- 
rie to picture the fear and consternation that 
spread through the habitations of the village on 
that eventful day, 

Herbert Arnheim Tracy, became known n 
foreign lands, as an able counsellor in the cab- 
inet of kings, and tradition relates that after the 
lapse of years had borne his fair and beautiful 
wife from earth and its sorrows, a warrior 
whose brow was seared by the lines of prema- 
ture age, was known among the bravest of the 
brave men who drew their swords under the 
banner of Napoleon, at the carnage feast of 
Waterloo. He was known by the title of 
General Arnheim Tracy, designated by cour- 
tesy 44 Count Wallingford," rather in re- 
spect to his ancient lineage, than from an actual 
possession of the estates of Wallingford, which, 
for want of a claimant, had reverted to the 
British Crown. 

And the murderer of Major Tracy — was he 
ever discovered ? The hand that pealed the 
shot from the graveyard wall of Germantown, 
was never recognized with all the accuracy 
and minute detail of circumstantial evidence. 
But tradition relates, that years after the battle 
— when the mansion of Major Tracy had 



188 



HERBERT TRACY, 



passed into other hands, and events of the Rev- 
olution had assumed the venerable appearance 
of antiquity — an aged man, whose frame was 
broken down with disease, and whose brow 
was furrowed with the traces of long indulged 
passions, appeared in the village of German- 
town, and sought the shelter of the village poor- 
house. 

In his dying hour, he muttered a dark con- 
fession of a life of crime and infamy, but the 
ears of his hearers were in especial attracted 
by a tale of horror which he told of the even- 
ing succeeding the battle-morn. 

Returning from the plunder of the dead bo- 
dies that strewed the battle-field, he sought the 
shelter of the grave-yard wall, to examine his 
ill-gotten acquisitions. While thus employed, 
he observed approaching along the main road, 
an officer whom he had seen as he prowled 
from army to army during the day, prominent 
in the van of the British hosts, heading the 
charge, and fighting in the thickest of the me- 
lee. Seized by an uncontrolable impulse, the 
vagabond raised his piece to the level of the 
wall, and taking secure aim at the star on his 
breast, he shot the British officer to the heart 
and then fled. He knew not why he dealt the 
blow, but attributed the action to a sudden 
thirst of bloodshed which possessed him for 
the moment, together with a dimly defined de- 
sire to revenge the death of the Americans 
who strewed the battle-field. He made this 



confession and died, but still a thousand other 
legends exist with regard to the matter, and 
point out a thousand other causes of Major 
Tracy's death. 

How Major Tracy died, and when and 
where, was ever a matter of deep remembrance 
to his son, but he died with the curse unre- 
voked and the imprecatiou unrecalled — that 
thought harrowed the mind of Herbert Tracy 
until his dying hour, and hung like a cloud of 
evil omen over the brightest points of the path 
way of life. 

And so ends the legend of Herbert Tracy 
and his gallant band, of Rangers, with all its 
thrilling incidents, which are too much inter- 
woven with truth and fact, to admit of the 
"unity and oneness," that give interest and 
attraction to a story purely fictitious in inci- 
dent and character. 

The bones of Herbert Tracy whiten a fo- 
reign soil ; his- bride, his fair and youthful 
bride rests far from the friends, the valley of 
her childhood ; a lowly mound in a village 
grave-yard contains the remains of the bluff 
Harry Heft and his dark-eyed dame, and after 
a lapse of sixty-five long years, the memory 
of the battle has become a record of solemn 
and painful history ; yet still around the homes 
of Germantown, and among the firesides of 
the quiet Wissahikon, lingers and lives the 

£cgcnb of tl)c Biatk Hangers. 



THE XiEeEHBS 

OF THE 

AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 

BIT GEORGE LIPPARD. 

AUTHOR OF " THE QUAKER CITY; OR, MONKS OF MONK HALL;" "BLANCHE OF BRANDT WINE ; " 
"PAUL ARDENHEIM, MONK OF WISSAHIKON;" "WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN;" 
"MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE;" "MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER," ETC. 



One Large Octavo Volume, with a Steel Engraving of the " Battle of Germantown," at 
"Chew's House." Price $1.50 in Paper Cover, or $2.00 in Morocco Cloth. 



This work is, emphatically, THE BOOK OF THE REVOLUTION, of "1776," and is 
devoted to the records and legends of the American Revolution, which it embodies in a series 
of vivid and original historical pictures. It is the result of five years labor on the part of 
the author. It comprises his researches into the Archives, documents and papers now hidden 
away in the libraries and closets of the Union. It also combines those traditions which old 
men have brought down from their parents to our time, concerning the days of " 1776." It 
is also the best book that has ever been written on this portion of our history, it being of the 
days and times of "1776." It is also not merely a history. It is something more. It is 
a series of battle pictures, with all the truth of history in them, where the heroes are made 
living, present and visible to our senses. Here we do not merely turn over the dead dry facts 
of General Washington's battles, as if coldly digging them out of their tomb — but we see the 
living general as he moves round over the field of glory. We almost hear the word of his 
command. We are quite sure that we see the smoke rolling up from the field of battle, and 
hear the dreadful roar of the cannon, as it spouts its death-flame in the face of the living and 
the dead. Through all, we see dashing on the wild figure of mad Anthony Wayne, followed 
with the broken battle-cry of Pulaski; until along the line, and over the field, the images of 
death and terror are only hidden from our view by the shroud of smoke and flame. 

It also comprises life-like descriptions of the battles of Germantown, Saratoga, Quebec, 
Brandvwine, Trenton, Paoli, Red Bank, etc., with a new and minute description of the Signing 
and Proclamation of the " DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE." 

There is not a relic of the Revolution within a hundred miles of each scene, which has 
not been visited by Mr. Lippard, not an inch of ground, on the old battle-fields, that he has 
not explored. Hardly any old revolutionary newspaper has been allowed to rest in peace ; 
that too had to be dug from its garret-grave, and stript of its cob-web shroud, to satisfy this 
insatiate hunger for revolutionary history and legends. 

A copy ot this work should be found on every centre-table, or at the fireside of every Patriot 
and American, and it should be handed down to their children and posterity, as an heir-loom. 

GEORGE LIPPARD'S COMPLETE WORKS. 

THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776. Illustrated $1 50 

THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. With Portrait 1 50 

BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. .. 1 50 

PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. With Illustrations 1 50 

THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE LADY OF ALBARONE 1 00 

Above are each in octavo form, paper cover, or each one is in cloth, price $2.00 each. 

WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the "Second Series" of the "Legends of 

the American Revolution." With Illustrations 75 

THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER ; or, THE MYSTERIES OF THE PULPIT. 75 

THE EMPIRE CITY; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY 75 

THE NAZARENE; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS 75 

THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES... 50 

THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. Full of Historical Pictures and Battle Scenes 50 

THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON; or, LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 25 

JS^** Above books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents. 

fi^T* Copies of any one, or more, or all of the above works, will be sent at once, to any one, 
postage pre-paid, or free of freight, on remitting price of tfie ones wanted, to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, 



THE QUAKER CITY; 

OK, THE 

EVSOSyKS OF MONK HALL. 

A ROMANCE of PHILADELPHIA LIFE, MYSTERY, and CRIME. 

BY GEORGE LIPPARD. 

AUTHOR OF " LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION;" "BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE • n 
"PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON;" " WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN;" 
"THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE ; " "TuE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER," ETC. 



Complete in One Large Octavo Volume, with a Portrait and Autograph of the Author. 
Price $1.50 in Paper Cover, or $2.00 bound in Morocco Cloth. 



No American Novel has ever commanded so wide-spread an interest, as the above work. 
It has been made the subject of criticism wherever the English language is spoken. On one 
hand, it has been denounced as a work of the most immoral and incendiary character ; on the 
other, it has been elaborately praised, as a painfully vivid picture of Life in the Great City. 
It is written in a graphic style, with its darker passages relieved by portraitures of intense 
moral interest and beauty. But we advise the reader to refer to the work itself. Let him 
survey its varied pages, and take in the wide panorama of its absorbing plot, from the first 
chapter where the Great Idea of the story is dimly shadowed, even to the last, where that idea 
is portrayed in all its details. The character of a pure but tempted woman, illustrated in 
"Mary" the Merchant's Daughter, finds a strong contrast in "Dora Livingstone." Again; 
in "Devil-Bug" the Outlaw of City Civilization, may be discerned, some of the highest evi- 
dences of the author's graphic powers, — powers which do not fail him, when he comes to depict 
the proud Merchant Prince in Livingstone ; the heartless Sybarite in Lorrimer; the wayward, 
although faithful brother in Byrnewood; the fashionable swindler in Fitz-cowlcs; and the 
"God-like Statesman" in the corrupt personage, who protects the Forger and the Swindler. 

It is now many years since a prominent member of the Philadelphia bar first began to make 
notes of his experience of the Life, Mystery, and Crime of the Quaker City. These memoranda, 
fraught with the most terrific interest, at the death of this aged and most respected lawyer, 
were bequeathed to the author, who oecupied two years in working them up into this Romance 
of the Mystery, Crime, and Secret Life of Philadelphia, of the most original character. 

Although all the characters of Philadelphia Life are introduced — the Lawyer, who takes fees 
from both sides; the Parson, whose private history gives the lie to his public preaching; the 
Doctor, who commits a disgusting crime for money ; as well as the dishonest Merchant, the 
Swell-Forger, the black-mail Editor, the Young Blood about town ; the Fence Keeper, (re- 
ceiver of stolen goods,) etc., etc.; yet has the author painted no living character in the images 
of his work, but only the distinguishing features of the representatives of a class. 

GEORGE LfPPARD'S COMPLETE WORKS. 

THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776. Illustrated $1 50 

THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. With Portrait 1 50 

BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. .. 1 50 

PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. With Illustrations 1 50 

THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE LADY OF A LB A RONE 1 00 

Above are each in octavo form, paper cover, or each one is in cloth, price $2.00 each. 

WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the "Second Series" of the "Legends of 

the American Revolution." With Illustrations 75 

THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER; or, THE MYSTERIES OF THE PULPIT. 75 

THE EMPIRE CITY; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY 75 

THE NAZARENE; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS. . . 75 

THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES... 50 

THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. Full of Historical Pictures and Battle Scenes 50 

THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON; or, LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 2q 

Above books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, 

fcif Copies of any one, or more, or all of the above works, will be sent at once, to any one, 
postage pre-paid, or free of freight, on remitting price of the ones wanted, to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 



PAUL ARDENHEI 

THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON, 
BY GEORGE LIPFAED. 

AUTHOR OF " THE QUAKER CITY; OS, MONKS OF MONK HALL;" "BLANCHE OF BRAHDYWLNE; 
"LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN BKVOLUTION ; " " WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN;" 
"MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE ; " "MEMOIRS uF A FREACHER," ETC. 



Complete in one Large Octavo Volume, with a Portrait of the Mock of Wissahikon, 
Price $1.50 in Paper Cover, or $2.00 bound in Morocco Cloth. 



Paul Ardenheim illustrates the Secret History of the Revolution of "1776." The scene is 
now on the wild and mysterious Wissahikon; now in the streets of old-time Philadel} hia ; 
now among the homes of Germantown, and again on the dreary hills of Valley Forge. In 
its materials alone, it is pronounced to be one of the most singularly interesting works of the 
age. The characters of old-time Pennsylvania, the wild superstitions, with which tradition 
has invested the gorge of the Wissahikon ; the Monks who in the ancient time reared their 
rustic monastery in its shadows; the storied graveyards of Germantown ; Wharton's House, 
in Philadelphia, with its celebrated feast of the Meschianza ; the unwearied efiorts of partizan 
warfare, the attack by night, the desperate fight, the massacre, and the peril of battle in every 
shape. Such are a few of the incidents, scenes, and characters of this absorbing work. 

The main conception of the work is at once bold and striking. Taking advantage of an 
old legend, whose theme is the Weird Horseman of the Wissahikon, the author has relieved 
the historical portions of his work, by pictures of the dark and thrilling superstitions of old- 
time Pennsylvania, which, springing from the forests of ancient Germany, found such con- 
genial nurture in our soil. In one word, the book of Paul Ardenheim is intended as an 
embodiment of three things. i^/V.st.The Legends which give interest to the dell of the "Wissa- 
hikon, now grotesque, now terrible, and now sublime. Second, The Secret History of the 
Revolution, especially that part of it which relates to the vast Masonic order, whose ramifi- 
cations extended through all the branches of the army. Third, Of the manners, customs, and 
superstitions of old-time Pennsylvania. 

The manuscript upon which this work is founded, covers that interesting portion of the 
history of the American Revolution which has been hitherto secret and unwritten. 

The following localities are embraced in the scenes and pages of "Paul Ardenheim :" 

The Wissahikon. — From Robinson's Mill, along the stream beyond the Monastery, which ii 
yet in existence. 

Laurel Hill. — This is the scene of one of the mo-t thrilling incidents of the Romance. 
Wharton's House. — The Tournament of the Meschianza, with the exploit of the American 
partizan chief. 

The old State House. — The Signing of the immortal Declaration of Independence. 
Valley Forge. — The trials and sufferings of the army under "Washington, etc., etc. 

GEORGE LIPPARS'S COMPLETE WORKS. 

PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. WiUi Illustrations SI 50 

THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776. Illustrated 1 50 

THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. With Portrait.... 1 50 

BLANCHE OF BR ANDY WINE ; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. .. 1 50 

THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE LADY OF ALBARONE 1 00 

Above are each in octavo form, paper cover, or each one is in cloth, price $2.00 each. 

WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the "Second Series" of the "Legends of 

the American Revolution." With Illustrations 75 

THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER ; or, THE MYSTERIES OF THE PULPIT. 75 

THE EMPIRE CITY; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY 75 

THE NAZARENE; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTON'S 75 

THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES... 50 

THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. Full of Historical Pictures and Battle Scenes 50 

THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON; or, LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 25 

Above books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents. 

J6fe£T > Copies of any one, or more, or all of the above irorks, will be sent at once, to any one, 
postage pre-paid, or free of freight, on remitting price of the ones u-anted, to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 




OE, 

SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, S777. 



BIT GEORGE LIPPARD. 

AUTHOR OF " THE QUAKER CITY; OR, MONKS OF MONK HALL;" "PAUL ARDENHEIM ; " 
"LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION ; " "WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN;" 
"MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE ; " "MEjiUlUS UF A PREACHER," ETC. 



Complete in one Large Octavo Volume. Price $1.50 in Paper, or $2.00 in Cloth. 



" Blanche of Brandywine" is one of Lippard's noblest efforts, and is divided into four books, 
all of which are contained in this volume, and are entitled, Monthernier ; The Rose of Bran- 
dy wine; The Battle Morn; and Randulph, the Prince. It is a thrilling and heart-stirring 
romance, containing the Legends, Poetry, and History of the Battle of Brandywine, and is 
not only a vivid picture of the Battle of Brandywine, but also comprises some of the most 
beautiful portraitures of female character, ever written in the English language. 

" Blanche of Brandywine" is a continuous Legend of the Revolution, or rather a group of 
Legends, combined in the form of a Romance. The scene is laid on the battle-ground of 
Brandywine, and the time, from the Eighth to the Eleventh of September, 1777. Among the 
purely historical characters introduced in the work, will be found those of Generals WASH- 
INGTON, LAFAYETTE, GREENE, "MAD ANTHONY WAYNE, STIRLING, SUL- 
LIVAN, HOWE, CORNWALLIS, LORD PERCY, and COUNT PULASKI. 

The interest of the reader is kept up from the first page to the last, and the following scenes 
have been specially noticed by the Press everywhere, for their great interest and power : 

THE ESCAPE OF WASHINGTON. 
THE CHARGE OF PULASKI. 

THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS IN THE QUAKER TEMPLE, 
AMID THE SCENES OF THE BATTLE. 

THE REVENGE OF THE BLACKSMITH HERO. 
THE CHARGE OF CAPTAIN LEE'S RANGERS. 

Lippard's genius is not all dark and horrible. There is in him, too, the sweetest beauty, 
flashing out betimes like the dancing aurora up the winter sky. Even amid all the war- 
horrors of " Blanche of Brandywine," we shall see how the author's soul delights in the 
images of beauty and purity that seem to flit ever before him in the midst of the darkest 
delineations. Our whole literature does not contain any more beautiful sketches of female 
character than Lippard has given us in his " Blanche of Brandywine," of Rose, Blanche, and 
the Lady Isidore. All that a pure man could desire in a wife, a mother, or a sister, he will 
find in this book, made living and beautiful in the lives of these characters. Isidore we shall 
love forever, for she was not only " magnificently beautiful, but brave, and loving." 

GEORGE LIPPARD'S COMPLETE WORKS. 

BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. ..$1 50 

PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. With Illustrations 1 50 

THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776. Illustrated 1 50 

THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. With Portrait.. . . 1 50 

THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE LADY OF ALBARONE.. . r 1 00 

Above are each in octavo form, paper cover, or each one is in cloth, price $2.00 each. 

WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the "Second Series" of the "Legends of 

the American Revolution." With Illustrations 75 

THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER; or, THE MYSTERIES OF THE PULPIT. 75 

THE EMPIRE CITY; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY 75 

THE NAZARENE; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS 75 

THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES... 50 

THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. Full of Historical Pictures and Battle Scenes 50 

THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON; or, LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 25 

l&Xf Above, books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents. 

f&tS?' Copies of any one, or more, or all of the above works, will be sent at once, to any one, 
postage pre-paid, or free of freight, on remitting price of tlie ones wanted, to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 



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PETERSON'S MAGAZINE 



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POSTAGE HPZE^E-^-^IID ZB"2T n7X3:!B iPTTBIljISIESrEIIR,. 



OUR CENTENNIAL, GIFT! Every subscriber for " Peterson's Magazine " for 1S76 will 
receive, as a supplement, a handsome steel engraving for framing, (size 10 inches by 15,) the 
subject being "The Signing of the Declaration of Independence," after the celebrated picture, 
with coternporary portraits, by Col. John Trumbull. This engraving will be executed, without 
regard to cost, by Illman Brothers, and will be "Peterson's" Centennial Gift to its 150,000 
sub scrib er s . 

m um XS>^»— <Sa-— ■ 

"PETERSON'S MAGAZINE" is already the best and cheapest of its Jcind in the world. Its subscription price is 
only TWO DOLLARS A YEAR, or about half the price of periodicals of "its class. BUT IN 1S76 GREATLY INCREASED 
ATTRACTIONS WILL BE ADDED TO IT. Among these new features will be a series of illustrated articles on the 
Declaration of Independence, &c, <tc, which will be given without interfering with the usual variety of stories, novelets, 
&c, &c. Also a series of illustrated articles on the Great Centennial Exhibition, at Philadelphia, in 1876, so that persons 
who cannot come to it, may yet see it, as it were, for themselves; the whole to be published under the appropriate title of 

THE CENTENNIAL IN PEN AND PENCIL! 

"PETERSON " has always been pre-eminently national. Its stories are all original and all by American writers; 
and they are conceded to be the best published anywhere. Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, Frank Lee Benedict, Mrs. R. Ilardirg 
Davis, F. Hodgson Burnett, Jeanie T. Gould, and all the best female writers of America, are regular contributors. In 
addition to 100 shorter stories, there are being given, in 1876. Five Origins! Copyrighted Novelets. 

In the number and beauty of its Illustrations, "PETERSON" is'unrivalled. "The Publisher challenges a com- 
parison between its 




STEEL AND MEZZOT!NTENCRAVINGS«S# 



And the inferior engravings elsewhere. "Peterson's," also, is the only magazine that gives, 

Mammoth Colored fashion Plates! 

These are printed from Fteel plates, and colored by hand, in the highest style of art. Patterns of the newest 
bonnets hats cloaks, jackets, etc., etc., appear in each number. Also the greatest variety of children's dresses 
Also, PATTERNS FOR EVERY DAY bRtiSSES, in Calico, Delaine, &c, &c. Also diagrams, by which dresses can. 
be cut out. " Peterson " is unrivalled as a guide for the fashions. You do not know what to wear till you see "Peterson:* 

COLORED PATTERNS IN EMBROIDERY, CROCHET, Etc. 

COLORED DESIGNS FOR SUPPERS, SOFA CUSHIONS, CHAIR-SEATS, &c— each of which at a retail 
store would cost Fifty Cents or more. "Peterson" is the only magazine that gives these patterns. RECEIPTS FOr* 
COOKING, THE TOILETTE, SICK ROOM, Lie. NEW AND FASHIONABLE MUSIC in every number. Also, 
Hints on Horticulture. 

JGSr-Ttemeniber! we pre-pay postage to all mail subscribers. Formerly tlie subscriber bad 
to pay it at his or her post-office, at an expense of from twelve to twenty-four cents each, extra* 
Now that we pre-pay the postage, "PETERSON" IS CHEAPEii THAN EVER.^ 

OX13 COPY, OXE YEAS, (Postage Free,) . . TWO DOLLARS ! 



liberal mwwmmM von'oitiBsi 



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9 Copies, one year, (postage free, 
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83.60 
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PKEMIU3I FOIl THE CLUB — With a copy of our superb 
inches by 20) postage tree 
dollar enyravmy, to the pe* 



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( PREMIUM FOIl THE CLUB - 
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\ " I nmsTMAS Morning," a five d< 
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PREMIUMS FOR THE CLUB.— With both an extra copy 
of the Magazine, for 1870, postage free, and a copy of our 
large-sized mezzotint, postage free, " Cnr.iSTMAS Morning," 
(such as at retail would sell for five dollars,) to the person 
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chaeles j. s«TSRsair, 

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No. 303 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 



\ f Jt'22 



CHEAPEST BOOK HOUSE IN THE WORLD 

IS AT THE PUBLISHING AND BOOKSELLING ESTABLISHMENT OF 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

No. 308 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 



T. B. PETEESOX & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, are the American publishers of the 
popular and fast-selling books written by Mrs. Emma D. E. X. SorTH worth, Mrs. Ams 
S. Stephens, Mrs. Carolina Lee Hentz, Miss Eliza A. Dupuy, Mrs. C. A. Wareielb, 
Mrs. Henry Wood, Q. K. P. Doesticks, Emerson Bennett, T. S. Arthur, George 
Lippard, Hans Breitmann i Charles G. Leland), James A. Maitland, Charles 
Dickens, Sir Walter Scott, Charles Levee, Wilkie Collins, Mrs. C. J. Newby, 
Justus Liebig, W. H. Maxwell, Alexander Dumas, George W. M. Eeynolds, 
Samuel Warren, Henry Cocxton, Eredrika Bremer, T. Adolphus Teollope, 
Madame George Sand, Eugene Sue, Miss Pardoe, Frank Fairlegh, W. H. Alns- 
worth, Franx Forrester (Henry W. Herbert , Miss Ellen Pickering, Captain 
Marryatt, Mrs. Gray, G. P. P. James, Henry Moreord, Gustaye Aimard, and 
hundreds of other authors ; as well as of Dow's Patent Sermons, Humorous Americas 
Books, and Miss Leslie's, Miss Widdifield's, The Young Wife's, Mrs. Goodfellow's. 
Mrs. Hale's, Petersons', The Xational, Francatelli's, The Family Saye-Ali, 
The Queen of the Kitchen, and all the best and popular Cook Books published. 

T. B. PETEESOX & BBOTHEBS take pleasure in calling the attention of the entire 
Beading Community, as well as of all their Customers, and every Bookseller, Xews Agent, and 
Book Buyer, as well as of the entire Book Trade everywhere, "to the fact that they are now 
publishing a large number of cloth and paper-covered Books, in very attractive style, including 
a series of 25 cent, 50 cent, 75 cent, $1.00, $1.50, $1.75, and 82.00 Books, in new style covers and 
bindings, making them large books for the money, and bringing them before the Beading 
Public by liberal advertising. They are new books, and are cheap editions of the most popular 
and most salable books published, are written by the best American and English authors. ai.u 
are presented in a very attractive style, printed from legible type, cn good paper, especial!} 
adapted to suit all who love to read good books, as well as for all General Beading, and for salt, 
at Hotel Stands, Railroad Stations and in the Cars. They are furnished by us to all Bookseller," 
aa I Xews Agents at such a low price that they pay the seller a large profit, and will meet with a 
ready sale wherever they are properly introduced. They are in fact the most popular series ol 
works of fiction ever published, retailing at 25 cents, 50 cents, 75 cents, $1.00, 81-50, 81.75, ard 
82. O each, and they comprise the writings of the best and most popular authors in the svojld, 
ail of which will be sold by us to the trade at very low prices, and also at retail to everybody. 

Xew books are issued by us every week, comprising the best and most entertaining 
woris published, suitable for the Parlor, Library, Sittimr-Eoom, Bailroad or Steamboat reading 
and are written by the most popular as well as by the best writers in the world. 

j2SI*"Any bookseller, or any person wanting any books at all, from a single book, to a dozen, 
a hundred, a thousand, or larger quantity of books, had better send a letter to us at once, asking 
for a copy of Petersons' Xew Illustrate I Catalogue, then look carefully over it, marking what 
books you may want, and then send on the order at once to T. B. PETEESOX & BEOTHEES, 
Philadelphia, Pa., to fill, who publish over One Thousand Books, and have the largest and nio*t 
salable list of popular books to select from in the country. 

j^f* Enclose a draft for five, ten, twenty, fifty, or one hundred dollars, or more, to ns in a 
letter, and write for what books you wish, and on receipt of the money, or a satisfactory refer- 
ence, the books will be packed" and sent to you at once, in any way you may direct, with 
circulars, show-bills, etc., to post up. 

j^J^ We want every Bookseller, and every Xews Agent, everywhere, to sell our books, and 
to keep an assortment of them on haud, and to send at once for a copy of our Xew and Com- 
plete Descriptive Catalogue, which contains a list of all books published by us, all or anv of 
which will be sold to everybody in the Book Trade, to Booksellers, or to Xews Agents, at very 
low rates. There are no books published you can sell as many of, or make as much money on, 
as Petersons'. Send us on a trial order. All orders, large or small, will be sent the day the 
order is received, and small orders will receive the same promptness and care as large orders. 

j^T-All Books named in Petersons' Catalogue will be found for sale by all Booksellers and 
Xews Agents, or copies of any one book, or more, or all of them, will he sent to any one, at ence, 
to any place, per mail, po^t-paid. or free of freight, on remitting: the retail price of the books 
wanted to the Publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 

7^ WAXTED.— A Xews Agent, Bookseller, or Canvasser, in every city, town or viTa^e 
on this Continent, to engage in the sale of Petersons' Xew and Popular Fast Selling Books, 
o i wnich large sales, and large profits can be made. 

JS^*" Booksellers, Librarians, Xews Aeents, Canvassers, Pedlers, and all other persons 
whatever, who may want any of Petersons' Fast Selling and Popular Books, will ] lease address 
their orders and letters, to meet with immediate attention, to 

T. B. PETERSON and BROTHERS, Publishers, 

308 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa* 



GEORGE LIPPARD'S WORKS. 



T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, have just 
published an e. tire new, complete, and uniform edition of all the celebrated works written by the 
popular American Historian and Novelist, George Lippard. Every Family and every Library in 
this country, should have i?i it a set of this new edition of his icorks. The following is a complete 

LIST OP GEORGE LIPPARD'S WORKS. 

THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776; or, 
WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS. By George Lippard. With a steel 

Engraving of the " Battle of Germantown," at " Chew's House." Complete in one large 
octavo volume. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 

THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. A 

Romance of Philadelphia Life, Mystery, and Crime. By George Lippard. 
With his Portrait and Autograph. Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in 
paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 

PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. A Romance 

Of the American Revolution, 1776. By George Lippard. Illustrated. Complete 
in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 

BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE ; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEV- 
ENTH, 1777. By George Lippard. A Romance of the Revolution, as well as of the 
Poetry, Legends, and History of the Battle of Brandywine. Complete in one large octavo 
volume, price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 

THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE CRIMES AND 
MYSTERIES OF THE HOUSE OF ALBARONE. By George Lippard. 
Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.00 in paper cover, or $2.00 in cloth. 

WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the Second Series of the 
Legends of the American Revolution, 1776. By George Lippard. With 

Illustrations. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 

THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER; or, THE MYSTERIES OF 
THE PULPIT. By George Lippard. With Illustrations. Complete in one large octavo 
volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 

THE EMPIRE CITY; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY. 

Its Aristocracy and its Dollars. By George Lippard. Complete in one large octavo 
volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 

THE NAZARENE; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS. 

By George Lippard. A Revelation of Philadelphia, New York, and Washington. Com- 
plete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 

THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN 
CENTURIES, containing also, Jesus and the Poor, the Heart Broken, etc. By George 
Lippard. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 50 cents. 

THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. By George Lippard. Comprising Legends and 
Historical Pictures of the Camp in the Wilderness ; The Sisters of Monterey; The Dead 
Woman of Palo Alto, etc. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 50 cents. 

THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON. A Revelation of Life in a Great City. By 
George Lippard. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 25 cents. 



J&r^f" Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of either one or more of the above 
books, or a complete set of them, will be sent at once, to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, or 
free of freight, on remitting the price of tJie ones wanted, in a letter to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 



n r> t a -IQ11 



CHEAPEST BOOK HOUSE WORLD 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

Publishers and Booksellers, No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 

New Books issued every week, comprising the most entertaining and absorbing -works published, suitable for the 
Parlor, Library, Sitting-Room, Railroad or Steamboat Reading, by the best and most popular writers in the world. 

Any person wanting any books at all, from a single book to a dozen, a hundred, thousand, or larger quantity of books, had 
better look over this Catalogue, and mark what they want, and send on their orders to T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
Philadelphia, Pa., who publish over One Thousand Books, and have the largest stock to select from in the country. 

Enclose ten, twenty, fifty, or one hundred dollars, or more, to us in a letter, and write what kit d of books you wish, and on 
receipt of the money they will be packed and sent to you at once, in any way you direct, with circulars, show-bills, &c. 

Address all orders to T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philada., Pa. ft^> Large discounts given to the Tradc.«C9 
(XT* All hooka are sent free of postage by us, on receipt of retail price, when not to be had of your Bookseller or News Agent. 



MRS. SOTJTHWORTH'S WORKS. 



In 38 volumes, cloth 
price #1.75 each ; or $ 

The Spectre Lover 1 75 

How He Won Her 1 75 

FaijPlay... 1 75 

Victor's Triumph 1 75 

A Beautiful Fiend 1 75 

The Artist's Love 1 75 

A Noble Lord 1 75 

Lost Heir Linlithgow. .1 75 

Tried For Her Life 1 75 

Cruel as the Grave 1 75 

The Maiden Widow .... 1 75 

The Family Doom 1 75 

The Christmas Guest.. ..1 75 

The Bride's Fate 1 75 

The Changed Brides.... 1 75 

Fallen Pride 1 75 

The Widow's Son 1 75 

Bride of Llewellyn 1 75 

The Fortune Seeker 1 75 



full gill back, from new designs, 
3.50 a set, each set in a neat box. 

The Lost Heiress 1 75 

Lady of the Isle 1 75 

The Bridal Eve 1 75 

Deserted Wife 1 75 

The Two Sisters 1 75 

The Three Beauties.... 1 75 
Vivia; Secret of Power..l 75 

Prince of Darkness 1 75 

The Fatal Marriage 1 75 

Love's Labor Won 1 75 

The Gipsy's Prophecy.. 1 75 
HauntedHomestead....l 75 

Wife's Victory 1 75 

The Mother-in-Law....l 75 

Retribution 1 75 

India; of Pearl River... 1 75 

Curse of Clifton 1 75 

Discarded Daughter. ...1 75 
Allworth Abbey 1 75 



Miriam, the Avenger; or, The Missing Bride 1 75 

Above are in cloth, or in paper cover at #1.50 each. 

MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS' WORKS. 

In 21 volumes, cloth, full gilt back, from new designs, 
price $1.75 each; or #30. 75 a set, each set in a neat box. 



Bellehood and Bondage.l 75 

The Old Countess 1 75 

Lord Hope's Choice 1 75 

The Reigning Belle.... 1 75 

A Noble Woman 1 75 

Palaces and Prisons I 75 

Married In Haste 1 75 

Wives and Widows 1 75 

Ruby Gray's Strategy.. 1 75 

Curse of Gold 1 75 

Mabel's Mistake 1 75 

Above are in cloth, or in paper cover at #1.50 each. 

CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S WORKS. 

In 12 volumes, cloth, full gilt back, from new designs, 
price $1.75 each; or 521.00 a set, each set in a neat box. 



The Soldier's Orphans. .1 75 

Silent Struggles 1 75 

The Wife's Secret 1 75 

The Rejected Wife 1 75 

MaryDerwent 1 75 

Fashionand Famine. ...1 75 
The Old Homestead.... 1 75 

The Heiress 1 75 

The Gold Brick 1 75 

Doubly False 1 75 



Ernest Llnwood 1 75 

The Planter's Northern 

Bride 1 75 

Linda ; or Young Pilot 

of the Belle Creole.... 1 75 

Robert Graham 1 75 

Courtship and Marriage. 1 75 



Rena; or the Snow Bird. 1 75 

Marcus Warland 1 75 

Love after Marriage.... 1 75 

Eoline 1 75 

The Banished Son 1 75 

The Lost Daughter 1 75 

Helen and Arthur 1 75 



Above are in cloth, or in paper cover at #1.50 each. 

FREDRIKA BREMER'S WORKS. 

Complete in six volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, 
price $1.75 each; or $10.50 a set, each set in a neat box. 

Father and Daughter... 1 75 , The Neighbors 1 75 

The Four Sisters 1 75 I The Home 1 75 

Above are in cloth, or in paper cover at 51-50 each. 
Life in the Old World. In two vols., cloth, price $3 50 

JAMES A. MAITLAND'S WORKS. 

Complete in seven volumes , bound in cloth, gilt back, 
price $1.75 each ; or $12. 25 a set, each set in a neat box. 

The Watchman 1 75 I Diary of an Old Doctor. 1 75 

The Wanderer 1 75 Sartaroe 1 75 

The Lawyer's Story 1 75 I The Three Cousins 1 75 

The Old Patroon ; or the Great Van Broek Property. .1 75 

Above are in cloth, or in paper cover at SI. 50 each. 

BEST COOK BOOKS PUBLISHED. 

The Queen of the Kitchen, ' Old Maryland Receipts'. 1 75 

Miss Leslie's New Receiptsfor Cooking 1 75 

Mrs. Hale's New Cook Book 1 75 

The Young Wife's Cook Book 1 75 

Miss Leslie's New Cookery Book 1 75 

Mrs. Goodfellow's Cookery asit Should Be 1 75 

The National Cook Book. By Hannah M. Bouvier. .1 75 

Petersons' New Cook Book „ 1 75 

Widdifleld's New Cook Book 1 7* 

Mrs. Hale's Receipts for the Million 1 75 

The Family Save-All. By Author National Cook. . . .1 75 
Francatelll'sCelebrated Cook Book. The Modern Cook, 
with62111ustrations,6001argeoctavopages. NewEd.5 00 



MISS ELIZA A. DTJPUY'S WORKS. 



In 13 volumes, cloth, full 
price $1.75 each; or $22.75 

The Discarded Wife 1 75 

Clandestine Marriage... 1 75 
The Dethroned Heiress. 1 75 
The Gipsy's Warning.. 175 
The Mysterious Guest. 1 75 

The Cancelled Will 1 75 

Michael Rudolph; or, The 
Above are in cloth, or in 



gilt back, from new designs, 
i set, each set in a neat box. 
Why Did He Marry Her.] 75 
Who Shall Be Victor. ..1 75 

The Hidden Sin 175 

All For Love 1 75 

Was He Guilty 1 75 

ThePlanter's Daughter.l 75 

Bravest of the Brave 1 75 

paper cover at $1.50 each. 



CHARLES LEVER'S BEST BOOKS. 

Charles O'Malley 75 | Arthur O'Leary 75 

Harry Lorrequer 75 Con Cregan 75 

Jack Hinton 76 Davenport Dunn 71 

Tom Burkeof Ours 75 Horace Templeton 71 

Knight of Gwynne 75 I Kate O'Donoghue 71 

Above are in paper cover, orin cloth at 52.00 each. 

A Rent In a Cloud 50 | St. Patrick's Eve &< 

Ten Thousand a Year, paper cover, #1.50; or incloth, 2 Of 
The Diary of a Medical Student 71 

EMERSON BENNETT'S WORKS. 

Complete in seven volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back 
price $1.75 each; or $12.25 a set, each set in a neat box 
The Orphan's Trials . .$1 75 \ Bride of Wilderness. .$1 71 

The Border Rover 1 75 Ellen Norbury 1 71 

Clara Moreland 1 75 Viola; or Adventures 

Kate Clarendon 1 75 | in Far South-West.. 1 7J 

Above are in cloth, or in paper cover at #1.50 each. 

The Heiress of Bellefonte, and Walde- Warren 71 

The Pioneer's Daughter, and the Unknown Countess. 71 

DOW'S PATENT SERMONS. 

Complete in four volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back 
price $1.50 each; or $6.00 a set, each set in a neat box 
Dow'sPatentSermons.lst i Dow's Patent Sermons, 3d 

Series, #1.00, cloth.. $1 50 j Series, #1.00, cloth. .SI 5 
Dow's Patent Sermons, 2d Dow's Patent Sermons, 4th 
I Series, #1.00,cloth..#l 50 1 Series, #1.00, cloth.. #1 5 

GREEN'S WORKS ON GAMBLING 

Complete in four volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, 
price #1.75 each; or #7.00 a set, each set in a neat box. 

Gambling Exposed #1 75 I Reformed Gambler #1 75 

The Gambler's Life... 1 75 | Secret Band Brothers. 1 75 
Aboveareineloth,orin papercover at #1.50each. 

Q. K. P. D0ESTICKS' WORKS. 

Complete in four volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, 
price #1.75 each; or #7.00 a set, each set in a neat box. 

Doesticks' Letters 1 75 1 The Elephant Club 1 75 

Plu-Ri-Bus-Tah 1 75 I Witches of New York. ..1 75 

Above are in cloth, or in paper cover at #1.50 each. 

HENRY MORFORD'S NOVELS. 

Shoulder-Straps 1 50 I Days of S? iddy 1 50 

The Coward 1 50 I 

Above are in paper cover, or in cloth at #1.75 each. 

MRS. HENRY WOOD'S BEST BOOKS. 



Master of Greylands . .#1 50 

Within the Maze 1 50 

Dene Hollow 1 50 

Bessy Rane 1 60 

Squire Trevlyn's Heir. 1 50 
Geo. Canterbury's Will.l 50 

Roland Yorke 1 50 

The Channings 1 50 

Lord Oakburn's Daughters ; 



Shadow of Ashlvdyat- .#1 50 

Verncr's Pride 1 50 

Oswald Cray 1 50 

The Castle's Heir 1 50 

Red Court Farm 1 50 

Lister's Folly 1 50 

St. Martin's Eve 1 50 

Mildred Arkcll 1 50 

or The Earl's Heirs 1 50 



Above are each in paper cover, or in cloth at #1.75 each. 



The Mystery 75 

The Lost Bank Note 50 

The Lost Will 60 

Orville College 50 

Five Thousand a Year.... 25 
The Diamond Bracelet. . .25 

Clara Lake's Dream 25 

The Nobleman's Wife 25 



A Life's Secret 50 

The Haunted Tower 50 

The Runaway Match 25 

The Dean of Denham 25 

Mart. Ware's Temptation. 25 

Foggy Night at Offord 25 

The Smuggler's Ghost 25 

William Allair 25 



A Light and a Dark Christmas 25 



Copies of any of the above Works, will be sent by Mail, free of Postage, to any part of the United 
States, on remitting the retail price to T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 



THE MONKS OF MONK HALL; OR, THE QUAKER CITY. 



THE QUAKER CITY, PHILADELPHIA; OR, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. 




